Morrison Household. Early morning. Shouts from downstairs.
“Quick. Get down here! There’s a frog in my camera bag.”
Me: Well, that explains why you’re so jumpy. Pick it up and put it out.
Man of the House: “Help me!”
We’ve accidentally become a frog hotspot. Well, cool spot, to be more accurate. It’s been very warm and dry here recently, and in my infinite wisdom (yeah, right!) I’ve left a higgledy piggledy pile of stuff in my garden for the last three to five years. You know, pots, trowels etc etc. In a previous effort to ‘tidy’, I put a load of the empty pots into a blue plastic storage box. Then I left them where they had been….just, you know, en-boxed. In the course of time, it filled with rain water and various types of algae etc, and at some stage, became home to some frogs.
Until yesterday, I thought the frogs were just passing through, possibly from the linear park that runs at the bottom of our street. It’s an old railway line that’s been converted into a pedestrian walk and wildlife sanctuary. I didn’t realise they’d be happy with so little water – standing water at that.
I think I’d rescued three before this. Or maybe the same one three times? Hard to tell….I don’t know them well enough to remember their markings.
So yesterday, Toko got another one. Or maybe the same one again….you know what I mean. I took it out and dropped it back in the water. They kinda play dead when they’ve been caught, but then they swim away when you put them back in the water.
Then there was this morning.
So, before 7am, I had (in my underwear) rescued the frog, for about the fifth time this summer, and took action on cat proofing their habitat (the blue plastic storage box, filled with rain water and flower pots. Now with added laundry basket cover…) Unfortunately, his compadre didn’t make it. Zizou, the master frogger, tells me they taste just like chicken. And he knows they live in plastic boxes, so he’s now conducting a thorough search of every plastic box in the house. Not just blue ones.
He’s not stupid, you know.