I swore I was doing the right thing, though that's usually where we lose it.
At dinner a few nights prior my father and my brother had mentioned their new pet frog; something to do with a Boy Scout merit badge. Imagine the irony of achievement through captivity. Their first acquired pet, a painted turtle, had been promptly released since its constant escape attempt was accompanied by the knocking of its shell against the aquarium's glass. Our old man couldn't take it and set the reptile free. If only it were that simple for the rest of us.
Its ill-fated replacement was what they called a frog, but when I stopped by after work one day I discovered otherwise. At first I thought the ten-gallon tank on the porch was mostly empty; some gravel, a long piece of tree bark, a round takeout tin with dirty water, a rock, and seven dead earthworms fouling it. My curiosity piqued, I lifted the bark and saw a terrified toad compressing its body as tightly as possible. I had to shower, change, and attend a memorial service in time to console family, but this discovery posed a new quest that my conscience couldn't ignore. I lifted the dish of water, brought it to the front yard, dumped its putrid contents, and replaced it with tap water from the bathroom sink. The house was on a well so I wasn't concerned with the chemicals that wash our brains. After returning the improvised pond I gently placed the toad in it to allow it to drink and bathe. I did the same and went to the wake.
A few days later my father sent a garbled message. His talk-to-text technology is lacking at best and must be decoded by the recipient, but the gist of it accused me of a minor crime. That water I'd dumped was straight from the swamp where the toad had been caught, allegedly containing eggs. While I hadn't seen any, I couldn't prove otherwise and confessed to my accidental wrongdoing. "I had the kid's heart in mind," was my defense. "I didn't want the toad to die." My plea was accepted and a well-meaning emoji was sent; that smiley face with the awkward grin, though septuagenarians don't understand its sarcastic nuance. Relieved of any sentencing, I carried about my day.
It's been a week and the toad's still alive as far as I know, with one more to go before the project will be complete. An old friend once said that you're supposed to be the good guy in your story, but I don't know that I am this time. I'll concede to the amphibian and hope that it lives another seven days for its freedom. There weren't any eggs that died in the lawn, though. Take that off my growing list of charges.
