My first pet was a frog. I named him Lowe, since he hatched around Halloween, and “Lowe” seemed like the least freaky term as well as being more original than Fido or Max. My mother and sister persisted in calling him “froge.” 1 My mother always assumed that I felt guilt over eating frog legs. I never did, and I don’t recall her ever asking me about it so it was probably some weird projection of her guilt/attachment to the frog. The frogs I ate were caught on the banks of Kankakee river. Lowe was a test tube tadpole. Never the twain would meet – especially since he never got bigger than my thumb before he…well, croaked.
RIP Lowe.
Ever since then, frogs have been a strange little symbol for me. Creativity, though people like to say fertility, but I think that’s just a “knock up all the women and get them out of the way” conspiracy. Adaptability. A willingness to get wet.
It’s really not a bad association to have, as long as no one thinks I go great in a garlic reduction.
References- I’m the youngest member of not just my nuclear family but the youngest in my generation on both sides. Family members don’t listen to me unless I come in with a sledgehammer and a bullhorn, and sometimes not even then. [↩]
