FROG FRENZY

 

       

 There is a pivotal moment in cinema where a dramatic incident occurs and suddenly our hero (previously smitten with amnesia) recalls all of his or her lost memories as a tsunami of information breaks free in his or her mind.  I had one of those moments a few weeks ago in the stairwell leading into the basement level of our house. 
It began so innocently.  I was walking up the stairs from the garage with my arms full.  I turned on the landing and noticed a bright green tree frog crouched very still near the corner.

   Frogs do not horrify me like spiders or snakes, but I don't go out of my way to touch them.

 (except for that time Susan and I trapped about 20 tiny hippity frogs to put in Tom Mosely's desk drawer)

 I slinked past the tree frog hoping that I would not inspire it to hop on me, then put my stuff away and started fixing dinner, not giving the frog another thought.  In my defense, I must say that I wasn't too worried about the frog.  I planned to go back down after dinner with a broom and usher it out of the house.  I did marvel at it's almost neon green appearance (so unlike the muddy brown colored ones that croak so loudly every night).  
           My husband (let's call him Mr. I-Eat-Nails-For-Breakfast) sat down nearby to watch the news as I cooked.  I casually mentioned the frog and a transformation occurred.
I can only describe the scene as a nervous interrogation.

 "Why did you leave the frog there?" "Which way did it go?" "What were you thinking?"  It never occurred to me that my husband (Mr. Macho) would be reluctant to encounter the two inch tree frog.  
          The dilemma for him revolved around his "Man Cave" that he fashioned from the suite of rooms that used to house our sons.  He created a retreat where he could recline and watch his flat screen with his very own remote control and even his own bathroom.  Apparently, there was no room in this paradise for a tree frog.

 In fact, he jumped up out of his chair looking like Conan, the Barbarian on the hunt. He barreled down the stairs determined to root out the evil that was surely waiting to ambush him. Unfortunately, the little croaker had disappeared. Somehow, the frog managed to hide from the FBI-caliber search that ensued.  
           It took a couple of days for my husband to let down his guard and relax again in the basement.   But relax he did...right down to his Clemson orange boxer-briefs.  Only then did "little Croaker" reveal himself again.  I heard my husband's voice urgently calling me downstairs.  I followed the sound into the bathroom.  There, sitting on the toilet seat, was our little neon green tree frog.  We both laughed until I realized that he expected ME to move it.  It was a stand-off worthy of the OK Coral.  Finally with a "humph" of disgust, he grabbed the trash can and I handed him some cardboard with which to scoop the little critter.  All was going according to plan until he pushed the trash can into my hands and told me to take it outside.
          In those few seconds of transfer and indecision, the tree frog leaped out of the trash can above our heads and defied the law of gravity by sticking high upon the door frame with its creepy little suction cupped feet.

 The little two inch tree frog also inspired a few shrieks and acrobatic jumping in the bathroom that night (I won't say who jumped the highest).  It was in those moments of shrieking and jumping that I had my momentous onslaught of recall.  In this very spot over ten years ago,  our sons along with several of their pubescent friends were at the center of  a screaming, screeching, spinning and terror-induced tornado, that we refer to as "The Great Squirrel Caper", which, incidentally is the title of next week's blog entry.  But as for the tree frog incident.  Let us just say that the eventual hero of this story was our dog, Charlie. She freed our basement of Amphibious terror. We are grateful.