In Loving Memory

I write this in loving memory of my son's "froglet," who died today in an unfortunate altercation with our cat's tonsils.

"SwimStop" the froglet (TADPOLE, to those of us who went to public school), came into our home nigh upon 26 hours ago, complete with his froggy eco-habitat (with plastic plant!) As noted prominently on the "Grow your own FROG!" box, he was:

That's probably what we'd put on his tombstone, if there were anything left to bury. As it stands, we have a cracked habitat, a snoring cat, and a $250 swollen wood floor repair job to remember him by.

"SwimStop" (hertoforward referred to as "SwimStopDie") spent the majority of his short life in a miniature Styrofoam cooler, being mailed to us.

He was undeniably the central component of a "Grow Your Own Frog™" kit that my son received as a gift from his lunatic Aunt. Who still only made second place for "Most Misguided Christmas Gift," after the Uncle who sent us a Bubble Gum Making Kit.

My son was appropriately thrilled, until he discovered that you really don't GROW the thing - you have to send away for it. Meaning you get to wait. And wait. And wait. Until your Mother is ready to throw the whole damned kit out the window, If he asks ONE MORE TIME when the little amphibian is due to arrive.

So, after interminable fingernail biting anticipation, IT ARRIVED! The Kawa home was in a festive uproar, despite the fact that you can pretty much get a tadpole 24/7 from our decrepit back yard birdbath. But I've learned that it just doesn't pay to rain on a kid's parade.

We had spring water. We had "Magic Oxygenating Rocks" (similar, I think, to the Magic Beans of beanstalk fame.) We had froglet. But he didn't have a NAME. So my son got his first solo naming experience, and I'm proud to say he's got many other fine qualities that will sustain him throughout his life, so he won't have to rely too heavily on that naming thing.

SwimStop didn't actually DO much, but he tended to wiggle his tail very coquettishly when you smacked his habitat with a pencil. So I was kind of getting fond of him. Apparently, so was our cat. And, based on evaporation patterns, he didn't waste much time introducing himself after we'd stepped out to enjoy some fine weather.

Whether he was too hard, too soft, or just right, we'll never know. The cat's not telling. All I can say for sure, is he will be sorely missed, at least until tomorrow.

Perhaps, after all, he WAS the world's best pet. After all, he lived only 26 hours.