Hunt for the Bullfrog Mama
It was like Beowulf.
Mika had been slaying the bullfrog tadpoles by the bucketful, tossing them to the chickens who would play a manic version of rugby with the slimy morsels. The bullfrogs are an invasive species here, on Fish and Game’s Most Wanted list for genocide of native frog populations, and moreover they’re loud and annoying. Emerald Earth had one pair take up residence in the pond a couple of years ago, and since then they have produced something like 20,000 eggs per year. Since bullfrog tadpoles take two years to mature, the young were just starting to climb out of the water this summer. Mika (one of two vegetarians here, and coincidentally living right next to the pond) had been driven to desperation.
That’s how he found himself on a canoe on the pond in the middle of the night, shining a light across the water and looking for eyes, after the manner of frog-gigging warriors of old.
The intrepid Mika and Cathy were hunting the mother of all bullfrogs, with Mika shining the flashlight and Cathy (now noticeably pregnant) standing at the front of the canoe with her spear held valiantly aloft. Then—there—the glow of two bulgy eyes on a head the size of a saucer. Mika paddled silently, but furiously—the only oar at his disposal was broken and barely propelled the canoe—and they drifted slowly towards the mother of monsters. Mika, struck by the absurdity of their quest, could barely keep from laughing. Closer and closer they drifted, while the giant frog sat frozen, hypnotized by the light. They were in arm’s length, and Cathy struck.
“I got it!”
The frog had a mouse in her stomach when Tom gutted it, much to four-year-old Garnet’s delight. Mika felt obligated to eat some of the legs, which he pronounced “reasonably tasty, as meat goes.” The next night was blessedly, blessedly quiet.
Except for the coyotes on the ridge. So far as I know, Cathy has not volunteered to design a coyote spear.
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Tags: emerald earth, humor, original skills
