Well, our little pet, Sir Croaks-A-Lot has finally croaked.
And not the kind of croaking that says he was a healthy, full-grown frog ready to live free in the wild.
He literally croaked.
Chase made the discovery late last night and spent over an hour in tears. He cried, and sobbed, and wondered what he did wrong. I assured him over and over that he was the best pet owner that ever lived, and told him it was just Sir Croaks-A-Lot's time.
Truth be told, that stupid tadpole never did anything that he was supposed to do. The paperwork that came with him said he would lose his tail within two to four weeks, and that he would happily eat his food every day.
Well, three months later he still had a tail and no legs.
And I think he ate very little, though Chase fed him every day.
Whatever the cause, we are mourning that smelly, green friend.
Chase woke up early today and constructed a headstone to mark the grave:
Sir Croaks-A-Lot will spend his final days resting in an Anne Klein watch box, buried in a place of prominence in our backyard. I am praying a squirrel doesn't decide to dig it up in a week or two. I don't think they could handle the horrors.
Chase delivered a rousing eulogy in which he spoke of Sir Croaks-A-Lot's many virtues. Apparently, he was a really good listener and always tried hard to swim his best.
After Chase's tear-filled words, he picked a single yellow flower from the neighbor's yard and gently laid it on the headstone.
I prayed they weren't looking.
One last final wave to the little pet that failed to thrive:
We followed the funeral with a light luncheon at the bar in our kitchen. Chase chose to honor Sir Croaks-A-Lot's memory by eating leftover green pancakes that I thoughtfully made this morning for
St. Patrick's Day, I mean, Sir Croaks-A-Lot.
He was somber, but still managed to get through. He really seemed to enjoy his pancake peanut butter sandwich.
I really seemed to enjoy knowing there were no live animals in my house anymore.
Not willing to miss an opportunity for a special treat, McKay suggested we make frog cookies in Sir Croaks-A-Lot's memory.
Is it possible to think he just wanted cookies? Nah. Couldn't be.
Chase put on his brave face and managed to decorate and eat quite a few little frogs.
[We promise never to do this in your honor if any of you die.]
And now, behold the only pets we will ever have again:
Plastic ones. They don't eat, stink, pee, poo.
Or, most importantly, die.
RIP, little stinky green thing.