About five years ago, Stacey bought me a little frog in a little aquarium. It was the kind of thing you buy for your little kid; and knowing that I enjoy little kid things to the extreme, she got me one from Target. It came with care instructions and food, everything necessary to help the little frog thrive.
It took me maybe two weeks to get in the habit of feeding the frog at proper intervals; but, unfortunately, the lesson was learned a little too late for the frog. It died. I ... uhhhh ... killed it. It wasn't intentional, like murder or anything. More like frogslaughter, I'd say.
I felt very bad about the way I handled the responsibility, as I flushed the little frog into oblivion. It was not easy to admit to myself that I couldn't, you know, take care of a little frog. I peg this as one of the unresolved psychological issues I have to this day.
After that, I decided to go up to Target and get another frog. I would take care of this new frog. I would. I could. I bought two, a pair of frogs, one for me and one for Stacey. I guess I figured that I wouldn't be alone in killing a frog again if Stacey killed hers, too. I figured that these frogs weren't meant to live long ... planned obsolescence, so to speak. In fact, as I recall, the little instruction booklet warned parents that the life span of the little frogs was about six months.
Stacey took her frog, Freddy, to the office. She named the frog Freddy. Cute. Freddy thrived in the fluorescent-illuminated environment and grew and grew. He outgrew the little aquarium, and I helped move him to larger quarters. That was five years ago, as I said before. Five ... fucking ... years.
My frog, well, ... this was something for a little kid to do. How could I be expected to take care of it? I had responsibilities back then ... you know, ree ... spahn ... suh ... bill ... ih ... tees. Feeding a frog a few crumbles of yeast-like food every other day is something I forgot to do every now and then.
My frog, I hate to say this, didn't thrive. I ... uhhhh ... don't know what happened. Flu, maybe? It died. Three weeks after I got it. Three ... fucking ... weeks.
Why do I bring this up now, five years later?
Because Stacey's boss brought Freddy home. Freddy is on my desk. I'm supposed to take care of Freddy during Stacey's rehabilitation. I fed Freddy this morning. He's moving around. I, for one, am relieved, but I am terrified about ... ummm ... the inevitability of death. After all, he must be, what, almost 900 in frog years. And Methusalah, he was just over, ummm ... like 900 when he croaked; so, the way I see it, you know, Freddy is totally on borrowed time.
And I'm fucking terrified with the thought of the consequences in store for Freddy's custodian, if nature runs its course. I mean, I would not simply be just the bearer of bad news.
My chances, in light of my past experience, are not good.
Posted by Bill at February 10, 2005 09:40 AMOh criiiiiiiiiiisssssssssst almighty. That froggy is a goner!
I'd mail Stacey a new one but I'm not sure they travel well.
RIP Fred.
Posted by: Kathy Howe at February 10, 2005 10:39 AMOh no. My advice? Go to Target and get another frog and start feeding it. Then you have a backup.
Posted by: Jen at February 10, 2005 10:41 AMMy advice? Move that frog into the bedroom on a table beside Stacey's side of the bed FAST. Let her resume responsibility FAAAAAAAAAST. Holy shite. Are you nuts?
Posted by: Keri at February 10, 2005 01:17 PMOMG! Call the froggy vets. The pressure is on Billy Boy. Threaten him with being soup. He'll stay strong.
Posted by: Charlene at February 10, 2005 08:14 PMFred's dead, baby.
Posted by: Vicki at February 11, 2005 08:37 AMROFL. Keri has good advice - let Stacey take care of Freddy. Fear not, I killed a giant frog one day - not intentionally either. He was sitting on my patio and I was worried he was going to hop inside my house so I put a bucket over him and waited for my brother to come to rescue him. He was sitting on a HOT patio. He was UNDER a bucket. He could NOT breathe. He died.
Posted by: Michelle at February 11, 2005 03:18 PMFrogs and electricity DO.NOT.MIX.
That means no letting Freddy help rewire the pool heater and no, no, NOOOOOOOOOO taking him on field trips to the basement. I've never been there but I think if I can't go, Freddy shouldn't either.
I'm just sayin...yaknow...in case he IS still among the living.
Posted by: KathyHowe at February 11, 2005 09:32 PMFred's fucked.
Posted by: lucy at February 11, 2005 11:17 PMI agree with Keri. I think your frogs would have lived longer if they'd had a name, I'm sure that was part of the problem.
Posted by: Anji at February 12, 2005 08:53 PMI'm kind of scared to ask, because it's a whole week later...how is Fred?
Posted by: Jody at February 18, 2005 12:45 PM