“Two frogs fell into a bowl of cream. One didn’t panic, he relaxed and drowned. The other kicked and struggled so much that the cream turned to butter and he walked out.”

In Loving Memory

Mr. Froggy

2002-October 17 2010

Let me first say this: The life of a frog can suck. If you were a frog, you would be small, soft, and slimy. The slimy bit you probably wouldn’t mind, having never known anything else, but the small and soft part? Not so advantageous. Frogs are kind of like the 12-year old girl of animals. They have more predators than a Dateline special. Literally everything eats frogs. Snakes, birds, fish, lizards, small mammals, large mammals, hell even us. (Well, not me and mine, because we’re not fucking savages, but you know what I mean.)

So, for a frog to live for eight years…Well let’s just say if there was a Boston Post Cane for that sort of thing, the eight year old frog would have it laid across its lap, while sitting on his front porch, eating a raw onion and telling everyone to get the hell off of his lawn.

My fiancée was at Home Depot in 2002, looking for some plants. She saw a small frog in one of them, clinging to the leaves. It was a tropical plant. Knowing that the frog was not indigenous to this area, she knew she had to save it. (If you know her, you’re just nodding your head at this bit.) She loves frogs, my fiancée. She has a collection of frog kick-knacks. She has a frog tattoo, she has anatomically correct frogs that kind of freak me out. She had a terrarium with frogs in it that were worth more than my car. She has so much frog stuff that she told people years ago to stop getting frog items for her. You know anybody like that? It doesn’t work. People know you like (insert animal here) shit, and they just keep getting it for you, from now ’til the end of time. When she passes away, I can just see someone ponying up the money for a Kermit the Frog urn. That’s how real it is.

And before you ask, no.

So, she has a 10 gallon tank. She gets a screen top and some medium. A stick is either bought or found, I’m not sure. There is a concrete wading pool/ kill ocean that he likes to hang out by. She buys some plastic leaves with a suction cup for the side of the tank. When too many crickets start to perish in the Concrete Ocean of Death, she buys these plastic afro-leaves that float in the water, so that if the crickets find themselves reenacting the last few minutes of James Cameron’s ‘Titanic’, they can get up on these poly-flotation devices and be saved. (This was only a temporary reprieve, Mr. Froggy was a gangster-ass cricket killing bio weapon.)

Pictured: Wishing a motherfucker would.

His name started out being Li-Li, but at some point, I was  speaking as him, and referred to myself in the third person as Mr. Froggy. There was a very bad masculine French accent involved because I am still 10 in my mind. The name stuck, and he was Mr. Froggy from that point on.

He wasn’t the most entertaining pet, but he subscribed to the Harper Lee theory: Don’t give them a lot, but what you do give, make it good. He was stationary most of the time, but out of nowhere, he would go barrel-assing across the underside of the wire top of his tank like an Italian acrobat. He would sing at 1:30 in the morning, and nobody cared that it was late. He did it so rarely, that when he chimed in, it was almost like hearing the voice of a minor deity.

His tongue struck like a hellfire missile. He could make it from one end of his tank to the other in a leap that in proportion to you or me, would be like us jumping across town. He was, in short, reservedly bad-ass. For months, our fat orange cat took up residence on top of his tank, effectively blocking out most of his light. Did Mr. Froggy give a fuck? No. not a single fuck was given.

When I first got with my fiancée, she told me she expected him to live about five years. He made it eight. sitting on his rock, in his pond, or on his stick, he was the very definition of chill. I’m glad that we could give him such a good life. I loved him, and I know that she did, too.

He passed sometime on Saturday. We knew he was going, but it was still a bad scene. We wish we could have done more for him.

Goodbye, Mr. Froggy. You will be missed.

“Damn it feels good to be a gangster.”

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