For a few nights last week we’d sit in the living room and hear frog-songs in the yard. One, I decided, was a peeper. But there was only one so it must have been lonesome. Others, I decided, were louder, fuller, and probably tree frogs. I was wrong both times.
Remember the awful black water on top of our pool cover? While staring down into the murky depths I realized that two eyes were staring back at me. No, four eyes. Two eyes on top of two. A pair of frogs was into some serious hugging, the male on her back clasping her so tightly that she wasn’t about to get away. I lifted them out of the water with my leaf scooper and released them into the lake to finish their honeymoon in peace.
But I was wrong for the third time. Turns out they were toads, Fowler’s toads, and it was his voice calling for a mate that we’d been hearing. I’m glad they’re toads and I wish their children well. Most won’t survive their tadpole-ness but I look forward to having a new generation in our yard. Haven’t seen an adult in the grass in ages and I like having them around.