Last Sunday when the temperature climbed, we took the plastic covering off the patio furniture and discovered, residing in a puddle of water formed in the fitted corner of the protective sheet, a surprisingly large frog, who cowered under the table--which we then decided not to move to the center of the patio where it usually goes.
Her companion, the bullfrog in our defunct (came with the house) little round swimming pool (now an algae-infested pond) has been emitting loud mating calls regularly, so much so that both I and my son have attempted to remove him with a rake. But he seems to prefer life in the pond. He wants her to come to him, we realized. Hop clear across the patio where a bird or a cat could get her, through the grass, where the moles would be disinclined to consume her, but where she could easily fall into their tunnels and never be heard from again. Then there's the uphill hop through the thorny bushes on the hot brick pathway to the pool. Even if she makes it there, how will she get up the tall sides? She'd have to climb a nearby tree and drop, probably by accident, into that gooey mess of old leaves and green gunk and hope she landed near him.
How like a . . . not a man, but Donald Trump. Oh, he'll go to England to meet the queen (Buckingham Palace to be sullied by this frog who won't turn into a prince no matter who kisses what body part) but his mind, as ever, remains where it always is.
In the muck at the bottom of the pond. Where the fair trade deals drown.
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