Frogs...

I have lived in my house for 19 years. Each year, I look forward to many annual events. One of these is the Frog Arrival. Unlike the much loathed June Bug Arrival, the Frog Arrival is warmly (that is a pun that will become apparent momentarily) anticipated.

Shortly after the June Bugs begin their suicidal flights into my front porch windows and front door lights, the frogs begin to emerge from the...somewhere. The June Bugs and Frogs begin to arrive when the temperature goes up (up is a relative term here in Fresno when referring to heat, much like calling molten rock merely hot), ergo the aformentioned pun about a warm arrival (I am truly sorry for that). Mostly small to middlin', with the rare occasional whopper for a momentary fright as I walk along the poorly lit sidewalk, these frogs are quite enjoyable.

One thing I cannot fathom though is their total distaste for water from the hose as I water the various (and still unknown to me) species of foliage forced into the soil by my wife; whereas they seem to literally spring from the grass itself when the sprinklers come on?

Ah..frog husbandry is so fulfilling. Nothing better than a good horse beneath you, a cold beer and my trusty six-shooter as I watch my herd of rough-hided non-amphibian frogs mosey across my 0.00436 square acres of lush bermuda, on a slow trail drive towards the rhodedendrum patch. Turns out that June Bugs make good barbecue...