One morning my nephew Ryan informed me there was something dead in our driveway. I figured the cat must have killed a field mouse again. Usually I have to pretend it’s not there and wait for my husband to come home and dispose of it, but since my nephew was staying with us I got to ask him to take care of it. Hey, he’s 16. He’s old enough to handle a manly job and it probably made him feel good to be the tough guy.
After dinner Ryan informed me that the dead thing was a frog. A car must have run him over.
“Awh, I feel bad for the little guy,” I said.
He nodded. “It was pretty gross.”
“Don’t tell me!” I instructed.
“Okay,” he said. “But there are things I could say. About what he went through, when the car ran over him.”
“What do you mean?” I didn’t want to know. And yet I did. What exactly had happened to the poor little frog? And obviously Ryan wanted to tell me. In fact, he seemed to need to tell me.
“Well,” he said. “His guts…” Pause. “Came out…” Wait for it. “Of his mouth.”
I screamed and covered my eyes, trying to erase the vivid picture. “That is SO GROSS!”
“I know,” he said, smiling. “But I had to tell you.”
I knew what he meant. I’ve gone on to tell at least three people the frog story, in hopes that sharing the burden would somehow diminish its strength. Blogging about it now has probably vanquished it entirely. Sorry to put it on your shoulders, but thanks.
Poor little guy. Also now I am bound to have a frog in my dreams. I’ll have to find someone else to tell — pay it forward.