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November 23, 2011

It didn’t last long, but while it did, I am sure it looked like something straight off an I Love Lucy episode.

It all started when I went to let Jake out for his nightly pee last night.  Let me be clear: 99 out of 100 times Jake does not pee during his nightly pee.  In fact, he just hops out the door, turns around on the doormat, and waits there with an expectant look on his little face.   He has no intention of peeing, whether he needs to or not.  All he wants is his bedtime treat, which comes after he’s gone out for his nightly pee.

Except last night there was a barrier to pee/treat time.  There was a terrible, wicked, awful, malicious rain storm occurring.  And Jake, in his great anticipation of a bedtime cookie, had not yet realized this as he rushed to be let out.

Until I opened the door, that is.

In a split second he wheeled around and went slinking off to the other side of the sofa to sit and tremble.  The dog is twelve pounds of unadulterated wuss, and he wasn’t about to add an ounce to his slender frame from getting wet.

Now, the door was only open about two seconds.  And that is all it took for a tiny frog, one smaller than my thumbnail, to hop right in the door.

This is where I went into Lucy mode.  Because I knew one of two things was going to happen if I didn’t get that frog out of my house:

1.  At some future date I would find his tiny dessicated carcase cocooned in fuzz and dust balls under some piece of furniture, or

2.  At a much sooner time I would find his partially dismembered and digested carcase in a pool of cat vomit.

Call me crazy, but neither one of these scenarios had any appeal to me.

So little frog hops in, and I immediately shut the door and started saying “NO no no no no NONONONO no no no noooo”.  I dropped to my hands and knees to catch him, but every time I thought I had him, he would jump through a hole in my grip and disappear.  He was so tiny that I was afraid to hold him tightly.  I didn’t want to crush him, because I am quite sure that if you crush a frog with your bare hands, it never, ever, ever washes off.  Ever.

I chased him along the wall.  no no nononooo  I chased him behind a houseplant.  no noo no I chased him under the houseplant. no no nooo no no I chased him under the sofa.  no no no I chased him up a wall (I thought he was a teeny toad until I discovered that he could climb walls, at which point I realized he was a frog). noooo  I chased him across the windows in the door.  no no no no no  I chased him back along the wall again.  OH nooo  Every time I would almost have him, and every time he’d hop right through my hands and keep on going.

I don’t know which of us was more relieved when I finally caught him.

I opened the door and tossed his little frog butt out onto the deck.  Jake, who hadn’t seen a thing in his terror of the hurricane raging outdoors, saw me standing and came to his senses and wanted to know if I was going to get his cookie now.  Because it’s treat time, you know.

Help me, Ethel.


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