Barnaby Buttonsworth, a man whose face perpetually resembled a startled owl, had a problem. A croaking, pond-dwelling problem. He’d discovered a frog in rut in his prize-winning petunia patch. “Oh, dear,” he muttered, adjusting his spectacles. “Edna will NOT be pleased.”
Edna, Barnaby’s wife, wasn’t known for her gentle spirit, particularly when it came to her meticulously manicured garden. Describing her as a “jerk” was putting it mildly, at least if you asked the local squirrels.
“Right,” Barnaby decided. “Operation Amphibian Relocation is a go.” He donned his gardening gloves, which were only slightly less terrifying than Edna’s glare, and tiptoed toward the amorous amphibian.
“Excuse me, Mr. Frog?” Barnaby whispered, feeling utterly ridiculous. “You’re, uh, upsetting the floral balance.”
The frog, clearly preoccupied, simply croaked louder.
Barnaby sighed. “Plan B, then.” He carefully scooped up the frog with a watering can, muttering, “This is for your own good, and possibly my marriage.”
He tiptoed back into the house. “Edna, dear?” he called out tentatively. “I have something to show you!”
Edna, armed with pruning shears the size of small swords, emerged from the kitchen. “What is it, Barnaby? And it better not involve dirt tracked onto my pristine floor!”
Barnaby nervously presented the watering can. “I, uh, found a little visitor in your petunias.”
Edna peered into the can. “A frog? Barnaby, are you serious? You brought a FROG into MY KITCHEN?”
Barnaby gulped. “He seemed a bit… desperate. I think he wanted to find a mate.”
Edna narrowed her eyes. “Desperate, you say?” She snatched the watering can, marched over to Barnaby, and promptly poured the frog, along with a good splash of water, down the back of his trousers.
“Maybe,” she said with a chilling smile, “he’ll find a wife there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some weeds that need dealing with. And you… need a new pair of pants.”
