Fighting Frogs

I have … issues … with frogs.

Well, to be honest, they probably have more issues with me, considering I have wrought speciecide upon their number in the past.

But I’m beginning to wonder if, after nearly twenty years, they’ve learned to fight back.

The frogs in the neighborhood and I have lived amicably, habitat by home, for a long time now, but just last week, after torrential rains sent all of us scurrying indoors for cover, I’m beginning to feel hunted.

First it was the little guy, evidently a scout, who must have squirmed in under the garage door and then figured out how to hit the kitty flap hard enough to make his way into the house.

He probably did this while I was out networking my new business, Linked For Success, because I’d have noticed the kitty door swinging to and fro if I’d been here.

No matter. He got in. And he proceeded to do sneaky little froggy things for a night or two:

Hopping around the living room and making thwunky noises while I was engrossed in a book. By the time I cast a startled look around he was in hiding.

Ricocheting off the glass cocktail table, moving my papers just enough to catch my attention, and springing into his hidey-hole before I could see him.

Making little froggy noises that sounded more like a chirp than a croak, and got me moving around looking for the offending cricket. He must have liked playing chirp-SPROING!-hide. We were at it for nearly an hour before I found him and plopped him outside.

But now, the frogs are sending in the infantry: stocky little guys that can jump higher than I stand, and that land with a plop on my tile floors.

The first one in wasn’t too brazen, nor was he very bright. I caught him on the front lines and put him back outside.

But the next one, the 007 of the froggy set, is more cagey.

He slipped in and did his own recon before selecting his hiding place.

And when I stepped into the shower the next morning (I’m exceedingly near-sighted, so even finding the shower wall is a minor miracle for me), he made his move!

There I was, shampoo in my hair, eyes closed as I soaped my face, and the little SOB took a flying leap and landed on my forehead!

I shrieked! I batted at my face! I felt something squishy and then he pushed off my forehead and I heard him land on the floor of the tub. I didn’t want to stomp on him—who wants frog guts on their feet?—so I splashed water in the general direction of the last sound he’d made.

The shower curtain swished as he made his four-point landing on the vinyl and hung on right at eye level with me.

He WINKED at me, then jumped off the shower curtain and wiggled under the bathroom door and (I’m assuming) leapt down the hall.

Now, I wander my house with a butterfly net in my hand, listening for the sounds of little webbed feet.

This is war.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About Billie Noakes

The writer you want for crisp, clean copy.
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