Why I Don't Own a Frog
Why I Don't Own a Frog stories
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After years of being single, I was finally talking to somebody. Naturally, I was eager for any opportunity to see her. Chatting via Instant Message for a few days, there was finally an opportunity. She was free one night and wanted to hang. Awesome. But before that, there was just one small thing she needed help with.
By AndreaRCarr https://www.reddit.com/r/...

Why I Don't Own a Frog

by AndreaRCarr

After years of being single, I was finally talking to somebody. Naturally, I was eager for any opportunity to see her. Chatting via Instant Message for a few days, there was finally an opportunity.

She was free one night and wanted to hang. Awesome. But before that, there was just one small thing she needed help with.

She had a pet frog. Keyword: HAD. Despite my love interest's tender love and care, the amphibian passed away 3 days prior. Poor little guy.

But my love interest -- we'll call her Renee -- never got around to emptying the tank. She just didn't have the guts to reach in and throw it out.

That being said, I didn't have to grab it out of the tank and give it a proper frog burial (or whatever), but *it would be nice*. Being the "aim to please" person I was, I accepted the challenge.

The frog would be extracted from its home, laid to rest, then we'd continue the date from there. Awesome. I groomed myself, brushed and flossed, climbed into the van and sped off.

Upon arriving at her apartment, we exchanged pleasantries, hugs, and all the stuff that young nervous people do when they like each other. But the pleasantries could only last so long.

It was now time to head to the scene of the incident. She swung open the basement door and descended down the stairs.

I followed, listening to lumber boards creak and squeak below as they bore the weight of my being.

Uhh, by the way: if you're eating something, I'd either finish it or put it away. This next part is... unappetizing.

The basement's carpet was vacuumed just minutes earlier. It was white with dark blue speckles every couple inches.

Her computer desk had only a computer on it, her bookshelves held books and housed glass figurines. The bed was made squarely as an envelope.

I was surprised by how meticulous and tidy Renee was about her apartment. Pleased by it, in fact.

After taking in the tidy apartment's scenery, I turned my attention to the frog tank.

The hard water stains at the top of the tank, the algae-green water, and the deceased frog had festered for three days, creating about six gallons of frog stew.

Remember what I said about unappetizing? I approached the tank, staring directly into the cold eyes of our deceased friend.

Before going in, protection was desperately needed. I asked Renee. Any rubber gloves? She searched mentally for a second... nope. Alright... vinyl gloves? Not at all. Gloves at all? No.

Well, darn. It was starting to look like I'd have to plunge my bare hand into this toxic tank -- a thought that truly horrified me.

Wait! Renee found a grocery bag! That'll do. I turned it inside-out, stuck my hand inside, and had a makeshift plastic-bag-glove -- like I was picking up dog poop.

Now it was time to dispose of the body. Without hesitation, my hand started downward toward the deceased.

Within seconds, the feeling of cold, stale water chilled my fingertips through the plastic bag. During this whole ordeal, my head was turned away from the tank.

I couldn't see what was going on below. Feeling my submerged hand around the bottom, the tank's contents were becoming familiar to me. Gravel, corral, more gravel, a fish castle, then a stick.

Finally, I felt the unmistakable bumpy, slippery texture of a dead frog. Here he is.

My bagged hand immediately clasped itself around him. He immediately slipped out. Clearly, my grocery bag wasn't designed around a dead frog.

I maneuvered my hand more carefully around him and lifted him out again, making it out of the water this time.

But he slipped once more, did a belly-flop into the putrid water, then sunk back down into the gravel. Catching a dead frog was proving harder than catching a live one.

Finally, I made an underhanded reach into the tank and extracted the frog once more. This time, he stayed in the palm of my hand.

Frogs are usually green. However, when our amphibian friend passed away, he turned a rancid gray.

By the way: know how frog legs taste like chicken? Well the dead frog smelled a lot like a rotten chicken. And felt like it, too. Boy, that little guy was slimy.

I had a crushing realization: now what? I had planned (kinda) to extract the dead frog from the tank -- but made NO plans for anything after that. I eyed Renee, hoping she had the answer.

Nothing. We began to panic.

I proposed flushing him. Nope, that would clog the 'loo.

Throw him in the kitchen trash? NO!!! The carcass lay in my hand like a hot potato, except cold and it smelled nowhere near as good as a potato. If we didn't act fast, we were both gonna vomit.

Then, in a split-second, Renee rushed over to her sliding door and threw it open. I instantly dashed out with the carcass into the back yard.

Luckily, there was an extensive woodsy area behind her apartment. With a deep breath, a crank of the arm, and a "HOOAH!", I sent the frog out a hundred yards or so to its final destination.

And off in the distance, I heard an unmistakable *SHPLACK!!!*

It sounded like throwing out a carton of curdled milk. Except bonier. And meatier.

Rest in piece, little guy.

Written by AndreaRCarr and submitted to reddit on 2013-DEC-16

Edit: typos. Misspellings.

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