Frog Relocation Program

Shortly after my BIL and his wife were married, they were living in an apartment. He is a pilot and is away from home for usually a week at a time. On one occasion, while he was away, his wife saw a snake in the apartment. No one was able to capture the snake. Consequently, when my BIL got home, his key no longer fit in the door.

My SIL had them moved to a completely different apartment.

This story is a source of amusement for the male members of the family. We women, married to those men, side with the SIL. And we’re not laughing.

Before Fiddledaddy and I were married, I lived in a small house in Burbank, and had an unwelcome feral cat that would come to terrorize me when I worked outside. His name was Psycho Kitty, and I documented the saga in this post. Psycho Kitty was hauled off by animal control after a particularly ugly confrontation. Only to return two weeks later.

I then moved.

I suppose I should admit that I was going to move anyway, but for the sake of the story retelling, “I then moved” is so much more intriguing.

I’ve been keeping you all abreast about Frog, who has been stalking me for weeks, as I innocently leave the house before dawn to go to the gym. Last week I posted the horrifying incident where Frog found his way into my house. And then he was evicted before he could have his way with me.

For the next several days after he was thrown out on his ear (if frogs even have ears, which I doubt), Frog has been perched up on top of my front door, overlooking the porch. Staring at me. With unblinking beady eyes.

I should have cooked him when I had the chance.

He would then disappear at daybreak, causing my family to think that perhaps I am crazy.

Last Friday, we all piled into the van to take it to get the oil changed at the dealership. Because a family of 5 can have an awful lot of fun at a car dealership. On a Friday morning. And we don’t spend nearly enough time together.

(Clearing my throat.)

I opened the back of the van to get the stroller out so that we could entrap Jensen. Mostly to keep him from running up to each and every car on the lot to give them a push.

I reached for the stroller, and Fiddledaddy called out, “I’ll get that honey.”

“OKAY.”

I went to get the rest of the children out of the van, when I heard Fiddledaddy say, “OH WOW, look at this!” And Emme began squealing with delight.

Oh dear Lord, no.

It was Frog. Hiding in the stroller. Waiting for me to get the stroller out so he could pounce on me once and for all.

And there it would be on the news: “MIDDLE AGED HOUSEWIFE FOUND DEAD ON THE CAR DEALERSHIP FLOOR. STORY AT 10.”

And yes, it was the same Frog. I know, because we had taken pictures of him in the house and he had very distinct markings. And beady unblinking eyes.

“GET RID OF HIM!”

Calmly, Fiddledaddy walked a good distance away, and released him near a new Honda Civic.

Good riddance.

And you can bet that I checked the van thoroughly before we left.

“BURN RUBBER, MAN,” I hollered as we pulled out of the dealership.

Tomorrow, as I leave my house at dark thirty for the gym, I won’t have to quicken my pace to clear the front porch. No, I’ll be able to look up, and know that Frog will no longer pee on me. Or stare at me with unblinking beady eyes.

But I tell you what.

If he ever finds his way back.

We’re moving.

Post Note: The comments to this particular post have far exceeded my hopes and expectations. Good form, y’all!