A large frog moved into the garden a few days ago. It enjoys singing in the dark. I’m the last to complain about the sounds of nature, but alas, this frog was no Pavarotti, and its lack of talent was exceeded only by the sheer volume of its croaks. And so my nocturnal patterns were shot. REM sleep seemed but a distant dreamlike memory.
Last night as I was pointlessly lying in bed, desperately trying to sleep in the thunderous unrithmic cacophony, and with small flecks of cretestone sifting down from the ceiling, I thought enough is enough. I dressed in a convincing Elmer Fudd outfit and gathered a lidded bucket and flashlight. I was going on a frog hunt. The hunt in itself was difficult, as the frog would shut up the moment one approached, and remain so hidden between the ice cream bushes until you decide to move away.
The dogs thought the whole exercise was a game, and kept bouncing around like slightly deranged rubber balls. Their only contribution to the hunt was to drench my bare feet in buckets of drool. I seriously question the utility of any domesticated wolf derivative. They may be of occasional use in sniffing out pot at airports, but never take your dog along when fire fighting or frog hunting. They just don’t grasp the seriousness of the situation.
A few hours later, (I remember Jupiter was just rising) I had the frog in the bucket. Resisting an initial impulse to chuck it over the prefab wall into the neighbor’s yard (who doesn’t have dogs), I thought I’d do the environmentally responsible thing and release my quarry into the wilderness.
So a little later the frog and I took a walk to the local golf course. Suspiciously checking out my bucket, an uniformed boy kindly reminded me that ball collecting is done under contract by a registered professional. I assured him that the bucket is being employed for mere altruistic reasons. I carefully cracked the lid and showed him the frog. He looked at me funny, but let me in nevertheless. I’ve never really played golf, and was amazed at how early these enthusiasts started their game on a Saturday. Slowly walking down the middle of a long immaculately clipped green stretch I spied some golfers, all dressed up, waving at me from the hitting off tee. I waved back, which seemed to inspire even more enthusiastic salutatory gesticulations. But they were far and I couldn’t be sure.
We finally arrived at one of the heron infested dams, and the frog swam off into the distance with a gracefulness matched only by his voice.
I tried to think of something poetic, or philosophical, or inspiring. Friends parting ways. Comrades having to say goodbye after a battle barely survived. A subtle love hate relationship that came to a joyfull conclusion. But all I could think of was good riddance.
Mintaka