The Frog & The Ladle

So…. I walk outside to go to the mailbox. We have a little gross pond in our front yard. This:

Yeah. It's like half-filled murky mirk.

Yeah. It's like half-filled murky murk.

I see something and pause. What is that? Oh, that’s just the bloated belly of a poor, dead frog. Or toad. I do not know the difference. Poor, dumb little fuck. I mean, he obviously drowned. A frog. That. Drowned. He musta panicked. I mean, there’s a little ledge in the pool (I checked) that he coulda easily hopped onto, then out of the pool. Despite his obvious lack of innovation, I feel sad, and a tad guilty. Why didn’t I see him? Why didn’t I empty the pool? So, I do what anyone faced with such horror would do. I get this:

Yup. That's a plastic ladle. My only ladle.

Yup. That's a plastic ladle. My only ladle.

I scoop him out. He stinks. But he’s still a handsome guy.

I call him Teddy. As in Roosevelt.

I call him Teddy. As in Roosevelt.

I thought about burying him and shit, but it was raining. And people kept driving by, staring at me. What? What?! You haven’t ever seen a woman holding a frog in a ladle and taking pictures?

Teddy's Final Resting Spot.

Teddy's final resting spot.

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6 Comments

Filed under Utterly Random

6 responses to “The Frog & The Ladle

  1. Dan Whipkey

    Thats a BIG frog

  2. Allison Georger

    My Grandparents horse is named Teddy . As in Roosevelt is that a Southern thing we have just not tapped into yet? Odd

  3. Nice pix. It almost sounds like a children’s book, “The Frog and the Ladle”. Maybe like a sweet little frog that opens a diner, anyway not about a dead toad in the muck. Not a big seller.

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