At the end of my cul-de-sac flows a small stream. It’s a lovely sparkling thing. After a great rain storm or a generous snow melt, the stream bursts over its treelined banks. Sometimes when the spill-off is plentiful, the stream enjoys river mimicry. When it is a barren summer or dry autumn, the stream, like a magical trickle disappears. Long wild reeds and straw grasses – the kind that make eerie swooshing noises at night – quickly take over the empty gullet.
July has poured buckets of rain into the little stream. Some might even say too much. Its wet path is boisterous and bubbling. This morning while walking Rocky the Shepherd, I heard the unmistakable bellow of a mighty bullfrog. A deep throaty call leaping the imagination to a land of gigantic reptiles. I sensed the bloated amphibian squatting heavily on a warm rock. Its long sticky tongue springing forth to grab its fly by breakfast. His marble eyes so round they appear poised to roll out of his bulbous bullfrog sockets. Rocky’s ears perked up at the echoing dissonance of nature’s gong. I eased his pointy Shepherd ears back down with simple reassurance, “Rocky, it’s just a big old bullfrog croaking because he can’t bark. I can make you a bullfrog helmet if you’d like to ribbit…”