I guess you could say I have a history with frogs.

For as far back as I can remember, I’ve chased after these guys, stalking them in ponds and streams, reveling in their frogginess. When I was 5, my Uncle Lyman caught me a gigantic bullfrog; I named it Chris, after the gigantic man who ran the meat department at Jewel, and took it to school for show and tell. When I was 10, I took it upon myself to catch and release 22 leopard frogs during our vacation in Michigan; only problem was, I caught them in the Menominee River but released them, accidentally, in the car on the way home.

I’ve sketched frogs, “hypnotized” frogs and raised frogs up from tadpoles. I’ve watched frogs feed, and I’ve seen them get fed upon. Once I was lucky enough to watch one shed its skin, a truly amazing process. (OK, I first thought the frog was dying. It was a captive green frog, and it was puffed up like it had swallowed a golf ball. Using its front feet as though they were hands, it wiped and tugged and eventually pulled its outermost layer of skin off. The frog then stuffed the entire gooey, translucent glob into its mouth and swallowed it down in one big finger-lickin’ gulp.)