The Cuban Tree Frog

The chimes sang their songs as the soft wind crept through the back porch. Another batch of summer rain was coming in soon, and the pines and oaks waved at the sky and pointed the way. More like summer, autumn, winter, and spring rains. We get a lot of rain. The wet season Florida had started earlier than usual after a short break, which meant the weeds would grow, the air would be harder to breathe, and those damned Cuban tree frogs would return.

I hated those frogs. They’re considered nonnative and dangerous to the cute little tree frogs we have here. The CTF (as I call them) grow bigger, jump a lot farther, and eat the smaller frogs as they practice for the Amphibian Olympics. They also emit a crazy noise that sounds like two wet rocks being rubber together. Their eyes bulge out, and they have huge toe pads; they’re easy to spot. The sound is what leads me to them.

On our back porch, there are plenty of spaces for CTF to hide. After this evening’s rainstorm, they’ll come out of hiding to find something to eat. That’s my time to pounce. My method has been honed after years of trial and error, and I love to hunt. At nighttime, I’ll hold a flashlight in my left hand and have a gallon-sized plastic baggie in my right, folded inside out like Kermit’s mouth. Once I hear one (a frog, not a muppet), I creep up slowly, flash the light toward them, and position my right hand behind them. I must be lightning fast because so are they. Once I grab them, I quickly pull the bag right side out and seal it. In the freezer it goes until the next trash day.

I know it sounds brutal, but there’s a Florida state statute that dictates we cannot release these things back into the wild or knowingly let them roam free. They’ve been here for a hundred years, and they’ve had plenty of time to proliferate. So, to pass time, I relax by unaliving nonnative frogs. That’s a tad easier than catching the pythons and boa constrictors in the Everglades.

The rain stopped, and all was quiet on the southern front. Then, quietly at first, I heard him. REEE REEE REEE. Flashlight and baggie ready, I turned toward the sound in the corner of the porch. REEE REEE REEE. There you are, you little bastard. I turn the flashlight toward him, blinding him, when I hear, “Please, don’t. We gotta eat, too.” I dropped the flashlight and watched it roll into the pool. In the darkness, right where the frog was, another lament came forth. “You’ve already killed most of my family. I’m the only one left.”

I don’t drink or do drugs, but this was coming across as hallucinogenic. I backed away, trying to discern where this voice was coming from. I needed another flashlight. On the workbench, I retrieved an older flashlight that still worked. I let the dogs out just in case someone was participating in this practical joke.

Shining the light in the corner, I saw the CTF. He was just sitting on the ledge, staring at me. “Yeah, I know, ‘nonnative.’ I’ve heard it before.” This damned frog was actually talking to me. He wiggled so he faced me directly. “I’m just so tired. I’ve really had a rough life.” I think he sighed. “Gotta tell ya, the chlorine in the pool is really high today.”

“What the hell?” I got my baggie ready. “Get in the bag.” I’m talking to a frog now. “I don’t care. Get in the bag.”

“What? You gonna build another wall? Check my green card?” His tone changed. “For your information, I was born on Floridian soil, so I’m native whether you like it or now. I think I was conceived in one of your sneakers that filled up with water during the last hurricane.”

“The wall was for Mexico, not Cuba.”

“Tomato, tomahto, compadre. Your ancestors came from the same place, and I don’t see anyone hunting you now, do I?”

“What…how…how do you know that?” I’m still speaking to a frog. Am I being punked?

“Because you smell like black beans and rice.”

“That could be any Spanish cult-” I paused at the idiocy I was witnessing. Was I about to get into an argument about Latin cooking? “How are you talking?”

He mocked me. “How are you talking?” I could have sworn he rolled his eyes at me. “I’ve been here long enough to learn a thing or two. It’s called evolution, sweetie. Look it up.”

I was completely dumbfounded. I put the baggie down. “Why are you the only one I’ve heard speak?”

“Because I’m the last one. Your kind has done a great job eradicating my species. I don’t even have a mate. There’s this one green tree frog, though, I spotted out yonder…”

“SHUT UP!” I screamed. “I don’t want to hear about your mating habits.”

The CTF looked at me. “Don’t get me started on mating habits. Your curtains don’t hide anything. You’re the freak.”

“I…uh…get in the bag!” I got the baggie ready again.

“What if I say no?”

“What?”

“What if I say no?” he tilted his head to the side.

“You can’t.” And with one quick swipe, I scooped him up, and he was captured. I zipped the bag quickly and carefully, and through the plastic I could hear him cussing at me and sliming all over the inside of the bag. He glared at me and tried to find a way out. There was no way out. I walked back to the freezer on the porch and set him in there. I could faintly make out what he was saying.

“Aunt Hilda? You’re here, too? Mom, is that you? Jeremiah, you don’t belong here. Oh, we’re in Dante’s hell now.” His voice faded as I slammed the lid shut.