Page 25 of Doctorshipped
“Yeeesss.” I don’t hide my wariness.
“Remember how I asked about pets?”
“Remember how I said absolutely not?”
“Are frogs considered pets?”
“Frogs most certainly are not pets. They are wild animals who need to be in their habitats—moist, outdoor habitats.”
I squint toward the tupperware and see movement.
“Fiona, what is in that container?”
“Um.”
“Fiona?”
“It’s a baby frog. And he’s so cute. Well, actually there are three of them. And there are a few more in the back yard, but I couldn’t catch them all. They’re soooo cute, Daddy. Wanna see?”
“Do I want to see frogs? No. That’s a hard no.”
“But, Daddy.”
“Nobut Daddy. We’re not having frogs in this house, Fee. They belong outside. You can visit them there.”
Though now, I want to go out to the yard, find out where all the frogs live, capture each and every one of them, and take a trip to the nearest creek for a little frog relocation program. We have frogs in our yard. What’s next?
Fiona opens the container and walks toward me. “Just look at them, Daddy. They are so … Oh no! Oh no!”
The frogs, being frogs, or toads—this distinction has yet to be determined—sense their chance for freedom and leap out of the box in three different directions.
“Daddy! My frogs!”
I rub my temples as Fiona gets on all fours, scrabbling around calling out, “Kermit! Ribbit! Jeremy!”
They have names. Of course they do.
“Kerrrrmiiiit! Oh! There you are. Come to mommy.”
Mommy. This keeps getting worse.
“Daddy. Why are you sitting there rubbing your head? You need to help with the frog rescue!”
We agree on that. If we don’t find these frogs, they will remain in the house. Maybe die here, and of all the things Fiona needs, finding a dead “pet” isn’t one of them.
“I’m coming,” I say, carefully lowering myself to the ground so as not to inadvertently land on one of these amphibious intruders.
I spot one hunkered inside the back leg of my desk. He’s sitting there eyeing me with a look of froggy defiance, like he’s daring me to try to catch him. Keeping my eyes on the frog, I reach up to the top of my desk and grapple around to find the plate from the muffin I ate earlier. Maybe if I can coax him onto the plate? Then I could dump him back into the container.
“Hand me the box,” I whisper to Fiona as if talking too loudly will startle the frog.Startle the frog. I just thought that phrase. Whoever said single parenting would be dull never raised my daughter.
I picture Jayme wearing a fitted graphic tee that saysDon’t Startle the Frogand I chuckle.
I must be losing it. I chuckled at the thought of Jayme. Maybe my blood sugar is off. All I ate today was that muffin. That’s it. I need protein.
Fiona hands me the box, which has one frog in it already. I square off against the second escapee while she hunts for the last one. “Jeremy! Jeremeeeeey!” she shouts as she crawls around my office on all fours. I’m under my desk with the plate sitting next to the unsuspecting frog and the box in my other hand. I reach up for a piece of paper on the top of my desk so I can scoot the frog toward the plate with it. From under my desk I see a pair of legs in my doorway. A woman’s legs in high heels.
I debate for a moment whether I need to stand up or stay focused.
