Love Among the Rocks

“Make your move before I’m gone, because people change and hearts move on.”

 (Author unknown)

I could set the stage for romance by describing a moonlit, sandy beach with a sea of stars overhead and the soft breaking of surf – but that would be lying. This is the story of a common, lonely, lovesick, little brown frog that revisits our backyard pond every Spring, usually mid-May. His return is so predictable that we should have named him by now, like the pair of ducks that have become year-round residents. This year, we thought maybe he had “croaked” his last, but were relieved to hear his deep baritone repetitions come mid-June. In years past, there was a regular chorus that reverberated between our pond area and a neighbouring pond. Our daughter was still living at home then and thoroughly enjoyed the campground melodies, and enthusiastically kept her bedroom window open on those nights. I also shared a certain tranquility hearing the froggy bantering in the evening, but the decibels cranked out by the chorus partying got to be too much for me to sleep and I usually had to close up windows to baffle the serenades. The little fellas were looking for love and they certainly weren’t shy in their vocal displays of amour. When things finally quieted down after a couple of weeks, we knew there were some happy frogs somewhere.

Our frog’s looking for love

But whether the micro-climate of our back yard has changed, or whether the frog population is indeed in decline in our area as some conservationists warn, we have noticed in the last couple of years that the springtime ritual has become noticeably different in duration and group participation. Sure, the croaking still echoes between the ponds, but now it seems to have a “longingness” to its tone. It’s as if a solitary little soul has had his heart crushed, as though his real love has ventured to the arms (?) of another. Love lost, dashed on the rocks. It’s made me ponder whether he cheated on her and is now pleading for reconciliation, whether they simply grew apart, or perhaps he had a history that she couldn’t get past. (I really don’t want to entertain the thought that he’s a creepy ol’ frog that’s out prowling for some young flesh – eewww.) Maybe they’re going through couples counselling. For whatever reason, that single yet powerful from-the-bowels-of-his-being croaking seems saddened. His persistence in finding his sweetheart is admirable, but may be misspent unless his song is responded to.

This little brown frog has actually inspired my Hubby and I to call our bottled wine “Croaking Frog Estates” in honour of this annual ritual. It’s a testament to the resolve of an individual when love beckons. It’s also a reminder that we are blessed with little creatures that cross paths with us. I wish the little guy good luck with this year’s courting and when our night falls silent again, I imagine him smiling. That’s something to share a toast to.