My latest foray with African wildlife has been a strong and steady invasion of frogs. 'Tis the season, because just like last year they loiter about our yard like it’s the school playground and every day I somehow end up with at least one frog in my house. I’m well aware of this problem and during critical time periods (morning and evening) I am extra-cautious.
Now unless there are flying tadpoles here, the only way they can get into the house is through my one and only door. So especially during the evening, I am careful to check surrounding areas before quickly opening the door and slipping inside. Once inside my house I do a second quick scan for any stow-aways. When satisfied, I go about my business. But it then it happens—I sit down to read my book or work on the computer and all is well for a minute or two. Suddenly, I hear it: a gentle “plop plop. Plop plop.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the webbed miscreant self-righteously hopping across my floor.
That’s when the dance begins. I grab the nearest pot or bowl and stealthily make my way towards the amphibious devil. Now the big and fat ones are no prize catch—they can be nabbed with one sure stroke. But the little ones, now the little ones are trickier. Fast little buggers, they are always one hop ahead of my pot. They spring under chairs and behind wardrobes with deft evasive maneuvers. They’re too good…
So one of two things happen. I either think one hop ahead of the frog and nab him or, occasionally, I get so frustrated after chasing after a tiny frog for an absurd amount of time that I give up and go to bed, leaving my unwanted roommate in peace. Then every so often in the night I hear a soft “plop plop…plop plop…” as the intruder goes along his merry way. The next morning I am refreshed and full of vengeance. The hunt resumes.