The last thing I expected to find on my lounge room floor, the other morning, was a frog. In fact, it wasn't immediately obvious that the little brown blob was a frog. The kids and I looked at it. We discussed what it could be. We looked at it some more. And then I prodded it (because mothers are the bravest ones in the house), and the little blob kind of stretch a limb-looking thing. Slowly. Just a little.
It took a little bit to convince ourselves that we did, indeed, have a froggy little visitor. After many questions about how it got inside (I just don't know, asking again won't get you an answer, people!) we decided that all the fluff and hair and dust had clogged up its ability to move, if it was alive enough to survive.
I got a tissue to pick it up, and tried to rinse it off a little with some water. It stretch a little more. Then I took it back outside into a protected, but wet, spot outside in the rain. I suspect a kookaburra decided to eat it, because this poor little froggy friend really wasn't moving much. It was certainly gone by the time I got home from work.
Miss Mischief was so excited that our house was healthy enough to have a frog in it. I pointed out that the frog wasn't healthy anymore because our house had killed it.
Just in time, my very precious friend is coming to clean my house on Thursday. Maybe then the house will be healthy enough not to kill a frog with dust bunnies and hair!
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