Fortunately it wasn't as dramatic or traumatic as the loss of my dear chocolate lab Sophie, but death in any form is still kind of sad. It is a good-bye and farewell that stings, especially when that loss is tied to past places and times. Such was the case this evening in the discovery that one of my African clawed frogs had gone to the great Lily Pad in the Sky. These frogs were given to me as a birthday gift from a co-worker who became a dear friend almost 7 years ago.
I was hurriedly cleaning my house, preparing for one of those at-home parties that I got suckered into having because I wanted to help out a friend and I thought-- you know, my guests are already going to have to deal with pet hair in random places, I don't want them to have to view the algae filled tank that housed these two little aquatic gems as they enter my front door tomorrow evening.
Don't get me wrong, I cleaned the 1 gallon tank at least once a month, but for some reason the algae grows like mad. I've tried reducing the amount of time that the little 15 watt light is on, moving the tank to a spot that gets absolutely zero sunlight-- nothing seems to stop the plants from wanting to grow. So, once a month or so I pull everything out of the tank; rinse the gravel, take a soft toothbrush and scrub the ceramic décor cave and the sides of the tank and then put everything back in sparkling clean and vibrant and ready to grow more green algae.
As I said, I was in a hurry and I was used to just reaching in the tank and gently scooping the two little frogs up (they used to have exotic African names when I first got them and I'm embarrassed to admit that I forgot the names after I left my work with the American Cancer Society), placing them in a bowl that contained some water from their dirty tank and going about the process of cleaning the container as quickly as possible to minimize the time that the frogs were out of their home.
As I reached into the tank, I didn't see the familiar movement of two frogs which is what usually occurs when I go to collect them. Instead, I saw movement of one and the other flopped lazily against the side of the tank. "Oh, no. Poor frog," I found myself saying "I guess you finally just got too old."
I scooped up the surviving frog, put him into a bowl of water from the tank and then grabbed a piece of paper towel and scooped up the deceased corpse of my little froggy friend.
As I went about the business of cleaning the tank as usual I thought about what to do with the little amphibian's remains. Trash? No, never-- even when I was a small child I had to bury each and every animal I found on my parent's property, though my father would say to just toss the starlings in the trash. Toilet? No, that didn't seem right either and besides the frog was now wrapped in paper towel-- it would probably clog the pipes. No, the proper thing to do, even though it was 9:30PM and dark, was to bury the little frog.
I finished cleaning the tank, got the surviving frog into his clean home and went outside to grab a small garden spade from the small shed in my backyard. I selected a spot that had blooming Black-Eyed Susans and Echinacea, dug a little hole and placed the small folded piece of paper towel that held the little frog. As I placed him into this little resting place, I was shocked to find that I had tears threatening to fall. "Sorry little frog," I said "wish you could have lived a little longer." I didn't know what else to say at a African Clawed frog's eulogy especially at such a later hour. It seemed proper and I placed the dirt over the hole, put away the spade and went back inside.
I did stop for a moment to think of the little frog and the life he had lived all of these years. He started out in a small acrylic box with his tank mate for the first year and kept my desk at the Cancer Society company until I purchased the 1 gallon tank for him and his tank mate and the coworkers in my office would help "frog sit" for me. He and his tank mate had the most bizarre behavior-- oftentimes I would look into the tank and see one hugging the other furiously in an embrace. We called it "frog love" and I almost blushed at the fervor the frogs had at wanting to get close to one another.
The surviving frog now has a clean tank and I don't know how much longer I will get to enjoy his company before he makes the trip to froggy Heaven as well. In the meantime, maybe I can remember at least one of the original African names and start calling him by that.
Just another day in an Urban Zoo...
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