The grass these days stays wet enough for frogs to migrate from the water into the fields. I pull on tall rubber boots to move the sheep to new, deep pasture. Right now they live in a sheep tractor of our invention, a pen on wooden skids, which we pull forward every few hours. The ewes move towards the front and start snatching mouthfuls as fresh grass appears under their feet. They are safe and content.
It seems tedious, moving the sheep so often, but I relish the job. Here is one thing I can do. Among all the ways I fumble through tough parenting or veterinary cases or marriage moments or attempts at being a strong and kind citizen in discouraging times, here is one easy win.
I walk out into the dew-soaked field, while Rhubarb and Parsnip bleat their greetings. The ewes are small and fuzzy since I sheared them two weeks ago, and they lean their shoulders into my scratching fingers. I lift the water bucket over their fence panel. Taking one dog leash in each hand—each leash snapped to one bottom corner of the pen—I set my feet walking backwards. There. I have made two someones completely happy.
As I walk down towards the house, a frog darts between grass tufts. Aha! I think. Now I can make two more happy someones when I show this frog to the kids. I bend and grab. Three times, missing. This frog zigzags fast. On a fourth try, my wet hands trap the frog from front and behind, and I lift her in my palm. She is stunning—bright green with glistening dark spots.
As I raise my hand cupped over her, I see that she is flattening her body against my skin. Then, she flings both front legs over her head, palms up. I see fear. This gesture is universal—don’t hurt me. It is an instinctive plea. My heart lurches as I realize that this frog is at my mercy, and seems—at some level—to know it.
“Oh no I’m sorry it’s okay you’re okay. I’m so sorry.”
All thought of showing the kids vanishes as I lower the frog back onto the ground, where she crouches. Arms over her head, her toes splayed to shield her eyes.
For one moment, I could be the cop with the gun, the ICE agent taking away a child, the young man pinning a younger woman. Is this too big a leap? Power and empathy affect our actions in ways that translate across many moments, many opportunities for mercy.
As I back away, the frog places her front toes on the ground and launches into the grass, immediately invisible. She stays with me, though. I look up ‘green frog with spots’ and decide she is a northern leopard frog. I can find no image of a frog cowering under its hands, except the one burned in my brain.
Every time I move the sheep, I look for the leopard frog. Maybe I have a strange urge to apologize again. To replace my image of the frightened frog with a calm image, maybe a photo of her poised under a grass tuft. I don’t really need to see her. I am just learning to observe the beauty of other lives without messing with them.
