"Dad!!"

"Dad!!"

"Com'ere! Quick!"

There was no mistaking the tones. They resonated with that edgy
panic, the type that causes parents' hearts to constrict in fear
and one's Imagination to careen out of control envisioning "the
worst."

I dropped the onions and knife into the sink with the remaining
vegetables and turned at a dead run to the garage door. As I
reached for the brass knob three excited, yet seemingly unbloodied
and unbroken, daughter-units were jostling to get through the
doorway. We all skidded to stops.

"Who's hurt? Where's Miguel? Did you dump something? Why are you
acting like someone got hurt?" I bellowed over their raucous
chorus.

My three magpies stopped their chittering and three jaws clacked
shut; clack, clack, clack.

Daughter-unit Beta looking down and scuffing her toe on the tile
floor of the kitchen, her hands clasped tightly behind her back,
ventured, "We got a frog."

"YEAH! YEAH! We gotta uh uh uh FWROG!" Spawn yelled excitedly.

I closed my eyes and started to count quietly. To calm the racing
pulse that was keeping a beat in my temple. I took a deep breath
and exhaled it slowly. "Good. Go out and see if the other seven
are ready to morph," and I turned away to finish dinner.

"But, Dad? You gotta come see him, first."

I turned back towards Daughter-unit Alpha and saw the other two
bobbing their exaggerated affirmations. I sighed again and dropped
my chin to my chest, "Alright. For just a moment."

This experiment in wildlife observation was turning out better
than I'd hoped. We'd started with a capture of over 40 tadpoles,
two snails, and several dozen other assorted creek-dwelling
inhabitants. I'd even learned a valuable lesson on tadpole-ology;
the suckers are vicious carnivores and voracious cannibals!

The four of us squatted down around the tank that housed the
remaining eight tadpoles we'd liberated from a nearby creek. I
watched as a prime example of Darwinian Progress climbed out of
the water and onto the side of the tank, almost a frog (except the
remaining nub of a tail.) "Wow..." I breathed. "Cool, huh? You
going to call up your uncles and friends about this?"

"Can we??" three faces peered up as I walked back inside.

"'Course," I frowned. "I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't serious.
Each decide who calls who and you can start now."

"ALRIGHT! I get..."

We're on our seventh phone call and it would appear that we're
going to have quite a crowd around the Clan Ranger International
Amphibian Aquariums tomorrow. I guess I'd better make an effort to
clean out my Catch-All-Clutter-Containment Center (aka "two-car
garage").

The Ranger
--
"Grits are akin to Elmer's Paste with less flavor and more sand."