Babbies

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.