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.