A Frog He Would A-wooing Go...mmm...mmm

WC 728

A Frog He Would A-wooing Go…mmm, mmm, mmm

By Jack Rawlins

Being a bull frog isn’t all it’s croaked up to be…especially if you’re a tenor , a vegetarian and hate spending winters buried in the mud--instead of in Florida.

My name is Kermit. I hate the name, but my mother was a big fan of The Muppets. She dubbed me Kermit while I was still a tadpole, long before I became a pollywog full of teenage angst.

It was tough growing up. There are so many things that want to eat you. You’re considered a gourmet treat by anything that’s bigger than you. But survival wasn’t all I had on my mind.

When you’re a little frog with a high voice in a big pond surrounded by basso profundos, it’s hard to get a date. To complicate matters, Lincoln Ave., a busy country road, ran right through the middle of Cooper’s Pond where I grew up. You guessed it, right? Most of the ladies lived across the road.

Now, I have no clue why the chicken crossed the road; but I know what caused most crossings at Cooper’s Pond. Some would call it the mating instinct. Others would call it lust.

Many of those crossings ended tragically. I wanted a date, but not with destiny. What’s more, I could accept the literal truth that I was a tailless amphibian. However, I could not accept the figurative metaphor that I would go through another season tailless. I was constantly troubled by the thought that I might never get a lady to share my pad.

As spring turned to summer, I finally faced the facts: No ladies were going to come across for a vegetarian with a high voice. I knew if I could make it across that damn road, I could find my soul mate: one who hated to sleep in the mud all winter; one who hated flies and bugs; one who loved salads and veggies. And most important: one who loved Pavarotti, Andrea Bocelli and all the world’s great tenors, past and present.

In June, I lost all sense of reason. The constant nightly cacophony of a hundred bull frogs advertising “Need it! Need it! Need it!” drowned out my weak voice in the lilies pleading for a meaningful relationship.

I knew a trip to the happy hunting ground across the road might be my last. But the odds were good: it was just a short hop. Well, actually it would take several very long, rapid hops. But the potential reward did bias my analysis.

I went into training: For one week I practiced wind sprints, deep knee bends and broad jumping. On the eve of the big crossing, I carb loaded on lily roots for energy. Remember, I was doing all this with the foresight of a motivated myopic with a hazy vision of his future. Yet, I was driven by my desire to a-wooing go.

In fiction, coincidence shouldn’t happen. But in real life it often does. On the night of the crossing I collided in the middle of the road—with Miss Piggy!’ Her mother, too, had been a fan of the Muppets.

At first I thought I had been squashed by a truck; but as I shook off the shock and squeezed out from under her, I could see by the moonlight it was not a truck but a very fat frog…a very attractive, fat, lady frog.

Together we hopped back to whence she came. On the way, she told me the story of her life. She also confided that she had been lured by my clear upper register which soared high above all the chorus of base bass innuendos.

At this point to say that we lived happily ever after would be premature. The very next day our connubial bliss was interrupted by a scientist gathering specimens. He nabbed both of us with one swoop of his net.

We were terrified, but only briefly. One hour later we were happily ensconced in the amphibian house of the Cape May County Zoo. After our tough life in the wild, our spacious tank is a veritable Garden of Eden. It’s not Florida, but now we get to spend winters in a cozy environment instead of the mud. And we don’t have to listen to those awful bassos every night.

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