Farewell, Froggie.

The just take care of their livestock...
Proverbs 12:10

Or the frogs they find in the yard.

This past Tuesday started with a gorgeous morning.  Cool, sunny, not the least bit humid.  I shuffled everyone and their breakfasts out onto the back deck.  After handling cries of "I'm out of juice!" and "Can I have more cereal?" and "I don't LIKE this, I want toast!" everyone finished his or her breakfast and I sent everyone down the porch steps to play in the yard.  I then gratefully sank into my seat with my rapidly cooling coffee.  The relative quiet was almost immediately broken with shouts of "A Frog!"  I yelled across the yard, "LEAVE the frog ALONE!!" figuring he was one of the peepers that inhabit our yard from time to time.   A voice answered, "He's not moving!"

Sigh. 

I put down my coffee and went to investigate.

My first thought was that perhaps it wasn't an entire frog.  The lawn was mowed the day before, and I was thinking, "PLEASE don't be a limbless frog," as I scurried across the still-wet grass.  Thankfully, a quick glance saw that all parts were intact.

But a nudge with a toe, and then a poke with a finger confirmed that no, he wasn't moving.  This froggie was no longer of this earth.  No, I didn't know the cause of death.  A helpful voice suggested, "Maybe he had a heart attack."  Yes, dear, maybe he did.  Maybe he heard five squabbling voices coming his way and it was too much for him.

(I'm sorry, I can't be philosophical on two teaspoons of caffeine.  And no, I don't CARE that you dissected a frog last month, Luke, and still recall how to do the abdominal incision.  We are NOT doing a necropsy.)

"Mom, what are we gonna do?"  "I'm not touching him!"  "He's DEAD!  That's. NOT. FAIR!!! I don't want him to be dead!"  "It's not my fault!  I didn't squish him!"

Sigh.

I sent Celia for a paper towel (surprisingly, it's my girl who is the least squeamish -- or at least is the one who follows directions).  She came back and we scooted Froggie into the towel and wrapped it like a shroud.  As I'm debating how to dispose of his mortal remains (the big trash bin is at the road waiting to be emptied, and I couldn't just fling him into the woods), she says, "Are we gonna have a funeral?"

A froggie funeral?  It's barely eight o'clock in the morning.  I've had about three swallows of coffee.  Oh, why not?

So she got out our garden trowel, we dug a hole, and gave Froggie a Proper burial.  Complete with the Lord's Prayer.  "After all,"  I was informed, "he was one of God's creatures, too."

Celia then asked if she could build him a headstone. I handed her a Sharpie with my blessing, because it meant I could go back and microwave my coffee.

She found a piece of metal somewhere (I didn't ask) and wrote:

Frog.
Funeral
June 18, 2013
Have a Safe Trip.

What was left of my coffee was now spit across the table.

Goodspeed, Froggie.  May your trip to heaven be safer than the one across the yard.


N is for Northern Spring Peeper






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