For the past few nights, it’s been a little quieter around here. What has changed? I noticed a little wad of organic matter attached to one of the horsetail shoots in the fountain. It is clear, and has a few little tan commas in it. Aha! The quiet is from satisfied frogs! All their chirping has finally culminated in success in making an attempt to make more frogs. Yay! I’ve always liked frogs and their dry terrestrial relations, lumpy warty toads. When I was a kid I went with my dad to an appointment he had to sell a hearing aid to some farmer out there in the boondocks. While he was in the farmer’s house, I was outside exploring the canal that ran past the house. I caught a toad so big it reminded me of a football. Dad let me take it home, and it quickly disappeared from its well-appointed water-filled dish I had set up for it in my bedroom. Mom immediately knew it would end up under the really heavy couch and die. Turns out it completely disappeared; we never found even a desiccated corpse. As a matter of fact, none of my menagerie of wild beasts were ever found in the house after their escapes: no snakes, frogs, horny toads, fence lizards—nothing.
These tiny froglets in the fountain may magically produce among themselves another Clarence, a tame, house-living amphibian whose only mistake in life was living between a couple of dinner plates and getting smashed when they were moved. A new Clarence would make me happy. (I covered Clarence’s burial in my post of February 19, 2008, Clarence D. Frogge, R.I.P.)