We had several dogs during my growing-up years. Shandy Gaff was the springer spaniel who eventually went blind and deaf, and would stand in the lake up to his chest, barking at the minnows he could feel swimming past his legs. Amos and Stu were two black labs we had who lived short, if noble lives. And Molly was my soulmate dog – the dog that every angsty teenaged girl should be so lucky to have. (For what it’s worth, she was also the dog who took to eating part of the drywall over and over and over again, until my mom put a plant in front of that particular piece of drywall. Problem solved. I didn’t say she was the smartest dog, just my soulmate dog.)
At any rate, Molly came to live with us when she was an 8-week-old pup, when we lived in the dome. This being Minnesota, the weather the majority of the year was too cold for most amphibians. But there were the summers, and this was lake country, so the frogs would show up eventually. And show up they did! Our house was on top of a hill, and at the bottom of the hill on one side was the lake, and on the other side was a swamp. For whatever reason, the frogs would migrate up the hill from the lake into the lawn, and they’d hang out under the wooden walkway my dad made. I suppose it was cool and shady and somewhat damp under there – ideal conditions for a frog.
Molly wasn’t a real big fan of the frogs living in her yard. She go out and they’d start jumping, and she’d get annoyed. So I used to go stand on the walkway and egg her on – "Where are the frogs, Molly? Go get the frogs!" And she’d chase those jumping frogs like it was nobody’s business, until they were all hidden away under the walkway. She would catch one every once in a while, but being the trained hunting dog that she way, she’d hold that writhing creature oh-so-gently in her mouth until I told her to drop it. "Ptooey." And the slightly damper, freaked out frog would hophophop away, grateful to live another day.