Frogger

I arrived home after dark. I parked my vehicle, collected my things, and strolled around the sidewalk to the door.

Lo and behold, there was a frog on the ground.

I used to hunt for frogs in my best friends' ponds. We'd catch them, play with them, race them, sometimes keep them in buckets until the stench overwhelmed us. And here was one hopping along in suburban Northern VA.

So I grabbed him.

"Hey, have the boy come outside! I have something to show him."

Little man wanders outside, not sure of what to expect.

"Check it out! I caught a frog. Do you want to hold him?"

He was nervous. He's not used to interacting with wildlife, even ones as small and odd as a frog.

I grip Hopalong gently, and we can hear him chirping, struggling slightly to try and break free.

"Do you want to hold him?"

He's nervous.

"You don't have to, but feel his legs, his feet."

He gently touches the webbed toes, but won't go any further.

"You won't hurt him, right?"

"No, I'm holding him very gently. I won't hurt him at all."

"Because he's God's creature, right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"That's good. Frogs are special."

"Yes! See how special he is?"

And then the frog peed on me and I chucked him into the bushes.