The house we're renting in Connecticut is called Frog Farm, but we tend to hear more frogs than we see. The other day, a small frog was hanging out on one of the swimming pool steps, so I caught it and carried it the 25 yards to the pond. As I walked with it cradled in my hands, I told it not to worry, that I was helping it, that it would be much happier in the pond. At the water's edge, remembering how last time I lofted the frog a bit too high and far, I gently tossed it a couple feet away. A split second after the frog landed, something huge—another frog?—lunged from underneath and presumably ate it. Never have the possible ill effects of good intentions seemed so stark.
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