Frogs Are Friends, Not Food

Every morning he circles the pool, arms clasped at wrists behind his back. Walking around. Inspecting every nook. Cranny. And filter. For toads.

He usually turns up with some critter that he saved from being vacuumed by the butler robot thing that lives in the pool. Sometimes, he turns up with more than some.

This morning. Pounding on the screen door with his tush. Because I’ve grilled into his head that he is NOT to touch ANYTHING with slimy toad hands until he is properly anti-warted.

I opened the screen that leads out to the patio. He is dancing excitedly, showing me all these green things in his hands. Dark green. Medium green. Toad green. FROG green. Different shades of non-mammal-type green.

“Look Mommy! Aren’t they so cute!?”
He loves toads. He waits impatiently all winter, just so he can go toad hunting all summer.
“Mommy. I’m putting the toads back in the garden. Because that’s where they live. In the garden. Like trolls, Mommy. But the frog…is miiiinnnee.” He announces.
“OK.” I say. “Just put him in the tank with the turtles.”
We did.
We put him in the tank. With two painted turtles. Thinking that it’s just like the ecosystem from whence they came. We’re emulating a pond, smells and all, right there in my basement. All those little green creature should be very happy.
BIG. Mistake.
So.
We introduce Slimy the frog to Noah and Boss, the painted turtles. They said a big “whut up” to each other. It was going along famously.
We left them alone, so they could get to know each other. Hang out. Talk pond slime.
And we go about our day.
Later. When we went to check on how the three were getting along. Noah, Boss and Slimy. Frolicking in their fake pond, presumably. We were in for a shock.
Slimy had gone missing.
Only, there was nowhere for him to go missing to.
We looked at Noah. Who couldn’t meet our eyes.
We looked at Bossy. Who couldn’t keep a straight face.
And we knew.
Slimy wasn’t missing.
Slimy…had been lunch.
Those turtles, who we had risked our lives by buying turtle supplies on Craigslist for.
Those ungrateful turtles, who are living the lap of luxury. Who have every turtle need. And every turtle want. Given to them, within that stench-ridden pseudo-pond in my basement.
Ate their visitor. Their fellow pond dweller brother…or sister. How can you tell anyways?
Without a second thought.
Leaving no evidence that the little frog had ever been there.
Leaving us, the inhabitants of the home that houses their pit of death…
Worrying about our fates, when they grow to full size.
We can almost hear evil laughing to each other, warning us to be afraid. Be very, very afraid.
So before that happens.
Before they go on and become some Demonic Teenage Mutant Ninja Killer Turtles From Hell (after all, there has to be some truth to all those horror movies, right?)
I’m thinking, there has to be some good recipes on Google…
for Painted Turtle Soup, that calls for 2 small turtles.
Mwahahaha…

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