Monday, 2 June 2003

Spring hath af­front­ed me with her most bla­tant dis­play of new life, bab­bies [the british ver­sion of the word]. Most every­where I have been to­day, I’ve seen bab­by am­i­nals. First this morn­ing, there were duck­lings. All over the place along the riv­er, trundling af­ter their parental duck. No drakes were to be seen. Damn miss­ing fa­thers.

Then a bit lat­er, right be­fore work was out, I al­most trod up­on a bab­by wab­bit. I crouched down and spoke with it for a mo­ment, but alas it whipped off all too soon. If I had felt right about it, I could have quite eas­i­ly picked it up and made off with it. A heinous bab­by-snatch­er.

Then af­ter drop­ping Jeremy off at home, I al­most flat­tened some goslings. They are al­ready as big as ducks, but still quite downy, I am not go­ing to en­joy run­ning along the riv­er once the piles of goose shit start to swell.

Something I al­ways heard, some­where else, I don’t quite re­mem­ber, its one of those neb­u­lous pieces of pseudo-​fact/​humor that seem to os­mose in­to the cere­bel­lum — is that God/​Nature made bab­bies as cute as they are so that their par­ents won’t kill them. The on­ly thing keep­ing in­fants from dire doom is their cute­ness. I’d prob­a­bly want to kill an ug­ly some­thing that screamed at me all day and re­quired all of my at­ten­tion.

Its a good thing I like chil­dren.