Ranidaphobia

I don't recommend reading this post if you are of a nervous disposition.

Every now and again, the cats do something that looks a bit like this:


You and I might call that investigating. And when they are doing this, very little good can come of it.

Earlier this week, I was going from my bedroom to the bathroom to brush my teeth. It was quite late at night and the cats had been in for about an hour. During this two foot journey, I looked down at the foot of the stairs and noticed the cats investigating something. At first, I thought it was one of their catnip mice. But they're bored of them, what was it that was fascinating them so much?

It seemed to have a long tail, like a mouse - perhaps they'd finally caught one of the mice we hear scratching about in the walls every night?

Then I noticed it had two long bits. Like legs. Legs with two knees.

IT WAS A FROG.

Now, we must digress for a moment to explain about me and frogs. As a child, there were neighbours who had ponds in their gardens, and in these gardens resided frogs. And as we all know, frogs feel the need to have HUNDREDS of children. Known as froglets when they stop being tadpoles. And these froglets must leave the parent pond and go forth in to the world, only returning to create more evil spawn. So our garden became something of a froglet highway. There they'd be, night after night, hopping erratically across our garden. One of our friends once picked up a frog and brought it into our house and it leaped at me. A FROG LEAPED AT ME. This is not allowed. And ever since then, I cannot have a frog anywhere near me. I don't like looking at pictures of them, I don't think they're cute and I definitely do not want a frog anywhere near me where possible (strangely "foreign" frogs are fine, and I do think poison arrow frogs are quite sweet, being all blue and orange. In the zoo. Behind glass.).

So, let's go back to that evening, where the cats were investigating a frog. IN MY HOUSE.

I called out, "R, I need you". I must've sounded quite frantic as he appeared straightaway.

"What is it?"

"The cats have a FROG! Do something!" (there was swearing, but this is a family show)

I stood at the top of the stairs, wringing my hands like someone who doesn't want frogs in her house. R got the catlitter spade and scooped the frog up. On closer examination, it proved to be alive.

There was a LIVE frog in the house. Dead frogs are one thing, but one that's breathing? Breathing frogs JUMP. This was just getting worse!

Then I had to go and help by corraling the cats away from the back door so R could flick it into the garden. He explained what he wanted me to do, by gesticulating with the spade. The spade with a frog on the end of it.

There was more swearing. Finally it was over.

We then debriefed the incident with me explaining not to stick spades with frogs on the end of them in my face as I will scream and do swearing. R understood. We also mulled over how a frog appeared in the house, an hour after the cats had last been outside.

I realised they must have brought the frog in earlier in the day, it had hidden somewhere, then revealed itself for further playtime. Naturally, the thought made me feel sick. What if there were more frogs in the house? What if every nook and cranny was hiding a traumatised frog? It was enough to make me want a very long hot shower and a flamethrower.

R calmed me down, but the cats are now excluded from the house when we're not in. That hasn't stopped them though...