Last summer I spent a few weeks at my grandparents house in a small town in Illinois. I spent most of my days lounging by the pool in their backyard, reading. One morning I woke up early, poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed my book of the day, and headed to my favorite chair overlooking their yard well before the sun reached it's peak. It was nice to just sit outside, enjoy the sounds of morning.
On this particular morning, as I sat by the pool, I noticed about six or seven frogs swimming in the water.
I know enough about this issue from when I was little to understand that the amount of chlorine and chemicals in the pool will kill those frogs within the hour. So I spent the next half an hour or so fishing these frogs out of the pool. But the frogs didn't want to be saved, they just wanted to stay cool. They would swim down to the very bottom of the shallow end and then coast their way along until they were 10 feet deep and skimming the drain. At this point, I was getting frustrated. The sun was rising fast and it was getting hot and I still hadn't finished my coffee. But I kept at it until the very last one was out, an hour after I started. I caught him after he stopped swimming and just sat at the bottom, slowly starting to float upward. I shook him out onto the grass and just watched him. He didn't move. He was a cute little frog, small and green, with a darker splotch on his back that looked kind of like Texas. I watched him for about ten minutes, sometimes picking up a leaf to poke at him or lay over him. He never moved.
I gave up, with a heavy heart. I couldn't save him. He was just a frog but at this point in my life, something about it resonated with me: I couldn't save him. I went up to change into my bathing suit, grab a bottle of water and maybe a soda because at this point it was too hot to even think about coffee, and head back down. The first thing I do is check the patch of grass where I lay my frog to rest. He wasn't there. I start searching, slightly panicked, when I find him sitting in a bush next to the pool. I looked at him. He looked at me. I shook my head. He darted for the water. This time it only took me ten minutes to fish him out. I carried him out to a bush a little further away and settled down to my book. It only took a couple of minutes for him to hop right back in the pool. I fished him out and this time I kept an eye on him, now concerned my little frog had a death wish. This happened four or five more times, each time taking a little longer to get him out - he was getting smart about avoiding my net. Finally, I'd had enough. It was getting to be late afternoon and at this point I would have normally finished whatever book I was reading, but that day I'd gotten about ten pages in. I'd had enough. I fished him out for the last time. I even went so far as to tell him that I was done, next time I'd just let him die. We looked at each other, both knowing I was full of shit. But I think he got it. I carried him out to the edge of the yard, where the backyard becomes woods and gives way to a little creek. I let him out as far as I could from the pool and turned back.
I didn't see him again. I guess he finally got it, or was just sick of the game. Or maybe he was just a frog and couldn't find his way back. Maybe I should have kissed him just to see what would have happened. I don't know. But I spent my entire afternoon fishing a stupid frog out of the pool. He was just a frog. But I spent all day out by that pool, never going indoors for fear that he'd jump in the water and be dead by the time I returned. I never stopped fishing him out of the water. I never gave up.
