Just the other day I read astounded the report of a ‘dead’ baby “coming alive” after his mother put him to her bosom and told him her grand plans for his future.
Doctors were suitably gobsmacked as they saw the very infant they had pronounced as being in an eternal rest hours before, coming round to kick butt after the mother held a conference with his supposed cadaver.
And so yet again the truism that science can’t explain everything was illustrated like a stark naked man would exemplify the form of the male human body, but what this mystifying occurrence also waxed eloquent about was the power of a good mother.
Like this cub’s, who enthuses and empowers this recent orange addition to her green world, the same colour behind her ears, to at any rate put her best foot forward – and it does not matter which of her four – to take a step towards a fine start in life.
Like this cub’s, who enthuses and empowers this recent orange addition to her green world, the same colour behind her ears, to at any rate put her best foot forward – and it does not matter which of her four – to take a step towards a fine start in life.
Nourished by succulent deer and juicy boar and leaving the rest to Providence, she can gravitate from trees, leave cheesy bite marks on her siblings’ derrieres, chase fowl in the bushes and even do a little juggler’s jig on her way through the woods in that downy raiment.
Most of all, fuelled by her mother’s TLC, she can jump at life and embrace it, and walk down dashingly down a dappled road like an uptown girl emitting a lustrous glow, being, as she is, the light of the world.
TIGGA TALES 