A froggie would a wooing go

Not a peaceful night in Puppyland. I woke up from a bad dream at 2am and went through to the kitchen for a glass of water. It had ben raining and the back garden was fragrant and damp. I let out the puppies and they ran around on the wet grass, giving their squeaky little barks.

 

Then Jez caight a frog. She tore around the garden with the poor little creature in her mouth and brought it into the kitchen, trying to swallow it in gulps. I got the frog away from her and it hopped out of the back door, hopefully just hurt from shock and bruising. I had shut my other puppy in the bathroom.

 

Then my frog-eating puppy was sick and began to foam at the mouth from the toxins in the clammy frog skin. I was not madly sympathetic because dogs have to learn to leave frogs alone. But none of us got much sleep. My housemate has a phobia about frogs and stayed in bed with her eyes squeezed shut. The frog was a lovely rare little tree frog just sitting enjoying the rain when pounced upon.

 

I am very relieved sometimes that my puppies are not kittens. I had a grey cat who spent years trying to teach me to hunt by dropping live geckos and lizards and mole rats into the bath as I reclined there all pink and unsuspecting with cucumber rings over my eyes, basking in hot water, thinking peaceful thoughts until suddenly faced with a scrabbling molerat and the encouraging glance of my graceful cat. Not a Beatrix Potter moment.

 

Pausing here to wish all my American friends in the recovery blogging community a happy and sober Thanksgiving. I am so glad you are part of my journey and I feel privileged to read about your lives and experience, strength and hope. It’s a jungle out there people, take care!

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