As part of my nightly ritual, I check the front door to make sure that it’s secure. It’s not that I’m afraid anyone will break in, but rather that someone will break free.
Pity the fool that enters into this fray unaware.
I glanced out the front window by the front door. I never see anything significant, or even interesting, but still I look.
And there at the receiving end of the front porch from the gutter, lay a dead bloated frog, on its back, one arm draped across his throat.
If you’re new, you might note that I devote entire posts, and lo, even a whole category to my escapes with the amphibian population. Which continue to terrorize me, even in the throws of winter.
If you’re not new, I apologize. I’m doing it again. But I’m not going to torture you with photographic evidence this time. I’m sure you still haven’t recovered from the freeze dried frog entombed in the door of my van. And it’s still there. Btw.
I’ve had to stop taking pictures for two reasons. Because I do care about y’all and your well being. And my computer is set to show photographs when I haven’t touched it in awhile. And more than twice, pictures of frogs have appeared out of nowhere when I’m trying to enjoy something fried in nature.
And that’s just wrong.
I immediately alerted Fiddledaddy to the fact that there was a dead and grossly bloated frog on our front porch. Confident in the fact that he would extricate himself from the comfort of his bed, and go put it out of my misery.
Instead, “I’m sure a snake will eat it.”
I paused for a moment, trying hard to push that visual out of my head.
“Listen mister, we have 3 children that will go out the front door at some point tomorrow. And I am certain that at least one of them will either a) step on it, b) scream loud enough to wake the dead, or c) kiss it to see if that’s her prince at long last.
If you need the answer key, it is as follows:
“A snake will eat it.” And with that, he roller over and went to sleep.
Let the record show, that I didn’t sleep all that well, envisioning a fiery escape in the dark of the night, and what a large dead bloated frog might feel like squished between my toes.
At this point, you might be thinking that my meds should be altered. But alas, there are no meds. Which accounts for a few things. Just sayin’.
Even the resident snake was not desperate enough for a breakfast of dead bloated frog. And so there he lay, all day. The children all checked on the progress of his decomposition throughout the afternoon.
They gathered around him after an outing to pay respect. Cailey quietly said, “Look mom, how his hand is over his eyes. That’s so sad.” But I was too busy wringing my hands, and making sure that Jensen didn’t jump on him with both feet.
He has the same little boy compulsion around rain puddles. And ant piles.
The next day, Fiddledaddy left the house to retrieve something from his car. When he came back, I noticed the frog was removed from his almost final resting place. And was nowhere to be seen.
He maintains that the snake must have been famished. But I know the truth.
And I’ll let you all decide: