‘Twas last night, a dark and unstormy night.

From a heavily congested and not-so-sound sleep, deep in my subconscious I hear a “squeak” at 3:30am. I try desperately to dream an excuse for why something would have gone “squeak” at 3:30am. This is followed by a second, similar “squeak”, and then a third. I slowly start coming out of my heavily congested and not-so-sound sleep, and I hear the quiet twinkle of Ala Spit’s metal tag on her collar. Another “squeak” follows, and this time my heart speeds up a bit wondering what the source of this squeaking is.

Through squeezed-shut eyes, I whisper, “WHAT IN THE HELL WAS THAT?” to B, correctly assuming that by now he has also heard the squeaking. A grunt, which is Man for “Seriously? Do you think I’m going to get out from under this giant down comforter when it’s 67° in the house and try to be a hero?” follows.

Another squeak.

I bolt up in the bed and lean forward to see past the end of the bed and my eyes make out the shape of Ala Spit, a Croc, and a small, round, dark blob.

For a moment I think one of the cats has thrown up on the floor, but the shape just doesn’t make sense to be vomit. I quietly say, “I’m going to turn on the bedside light, okay?” which is followed by another grunt, which is Man for, “Whatever. As long as I don’t have to get up and get out from under this down comforter which by the way is sooooo warm and comfortable.”

I twist the antique light and from the dim 20-watt glow, slowly turn to see what is going on.

I watch as Ala Spit reaches around the Croc and pokes at the still-unidentifiable lump on the floor, which is followed by another “squeak” and A GIANT FROG-LIKE LEAP.

Using all my self control not to scream, I calmly and quietly throw myself onto the bed and under the covers and calmly and quietly say, “WHY. IS. THERE. A. FROG. IN. MY. BEDROOM?!?!” I throw the covers off of me to watch in disbelief as the cat prods, the frog squeaks, and I try my best to maintain my calm demeanor.

B grunts again, which was Man for, “Shit.”

He finally gathers up all of his manly man-ness and like the brave, brave soul that he is, walks to the end of the bed, looks down at the frog, and continues walking to the bathroom to take a piss.

Leaving me all alone, face-to-face with a prodding cat and a squeaking frog.

Might I add that in the course of my life and experiences, every PBS show that I’ve seen has shown frogs “croaking”. Since when do frogs “squeak”? As probably correctly hypothesized by B, who hypothesizes well while he’s on the toilet letting his wife bravely battle a giant squeaking frog, frogs probably squeak when they’ve been out of the water and in our house for a couple of days.  Ater having been captured and subjected to scientific “research” by the infamous Anja Rós.

After getting the smallest disposable Rubbermaid container and a Taylor Hicks CD, I finagle the frog into the individual-pudding-sized container and prepare to release it into the wild green yonder outside of my front door. But B, in his helpful helpfulness, makes a request from atop the toilet to please not let it go, can we keep it to show his family when they come visit?

So now, while he remains on the toilet throughout the entire conscious portion of the Squeaking Frog Incident, I saw through yet another lid to my disposable Rubbermaid container, the last lid with a matching bottom, to make a habitat for yet another creature to be “explored” by our wannabe veterinarian/entomologist/scuba diver, Anja Rós.