I hate frogs. I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns.
No, strike that. I don’t feel as if that properly conveys my sheer hatred for their kind.
I loathe frogs. I abhor frogs. I despise frogs.
Sadly, I don’t think there are enough synonyms for the word hate to describe the way I feel about frogs. They’re creepy and gross me out. They can come off the ground. I don’t like that.
And they’re deceitful. They can make themselves look like a leaf. They look dry from a distance when, in fact, they are really slimy.
You can’t trust anyone or anything that engages in this kind of trickery. Trust me, I know.
What I most dislike about them, though, is that they are unpredictable.
I was happy when I was of the delusion that no frogs, or any critters for that matter, inhabited my yard. But that delusion was shattered in this morning’s walk to the garage.
I was walking along the pathway through the backyard to the detached garage, minding my own business, when something moved alongside me and darted ahead. To say I had a moment would be an understatement. And when I saw it was a frog, I flipped out.
He was standing between me and the garage door, and I honest to God stood there on the path and played a battle of wills with a 2-inch frog.
After waiting for him to move to now avail, I said aloud, “OK, you are going to have to move.”
He just sat there.
I was certainly not going to walk over it, because what if it jumped? I was wearing open-toed shoes, which caused me to fear this outcome even more. I entertained the thought of going back into the house to change shoes, but decided it would not have enough effect on my fear level to warrant losing sight of the enemy.