Here froggie froggie...

While my family is on vacation in various parts of New England I agreed to take care of my little brother's pets. He has two turtles, Bobo and Chomper. They eat small pellets of food once a day and require no other care. He also has a tree frog named Fill. Yes, Fill. As in, he meant to name him Phil. He's eleven. We'll allow it. Fill eats live crickets.

*pause to vomit*

The process of feeding live jumping insects to a live jumping amphibian is difficult, slippery, and full of loud squeals. I do most of the squealing. This morning I pushed the top of Fill's cage back a fraction of an inch and gripped a squeaking cricket in the tweezers. As I was about to make the drop, Fill bounded from the cage. He landed *splat* on the heater vent. And then the little shit slinked his way in and plastered himself against the side wall. I stood there, cricket wiggling furiously in the tweezers, hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, cursing the God that invented live animals that eat other live animals.

I put the cricket back into the container, kicked off my shoes and lay on the floor. My hand barely fit in the heating vent and I strained until I felt Fill's slimy skin. As I pulled him out, I let loose with a rant of curses that would have curled your toes. I plunked him down in his cage and walked out.

Driving to work, I was overcome with a guilt so overpowering that I ACTUALLY TURNED THE CAR AROUND AND DROVE BACK TO MY MOM'S HOUSE.

How could I, an animal lover, leave Fill alone all day having had no breakfast. I must be a mad woman. As I tore down the winding roads I imagined the downward spiral I was headed for. First I starve a frog to death, and then it's only a matter of time until I'm running a full fledged squirrel circus, and barbequing puppy noses.