The Problem with Me
“LISTEN, ALWAYS LISTEN,” Granny Greenleaf tells us tads. “You can learn more from a falling leaf or a passing breeze than from all the loudmouth bullfrogs in the swamp. And remember: Bad things happen when you don’t listen,” Granny warns us.
“That hit the spot,” Mr. Brisbane says.
The Brisbanes are back. I may not have ears the way humans do, but I listen carefully to what they are saying.
“Now tell me about your problem with Og,” Mr. Brisbane says.
“The biggest problem is . . .” she begins.
I can’t imagine what’s coming next.
“The crickets!” she continues.
“Crickets! What’s wrong with crickets?” I blurt out.
Bert chuckles. “I think Og has a problem with your problem with crickets,” he says.
BING-BANG-BOING! Right again.
“Miss Loomis told me that according to her research, frogs like to eat live crickets,” she explains.
Yum! I think.
“Oh,” Bert says. “I think I see the problem.”
The problem is, I can’t get enough of them!
Mrs. Brisbane looks so upset, I feel sorry for her.
“I like crickets,” she says. “They’re thought to be lucky in some countries. And I know some people think their chirping is annoying, but I don’t.”
I like their chirping, too. It helps my fellow frogs and me zero in on their location.
Just thinking about yummy crickets puts a smile on my face . . . until I look at Mrs. Brisbane.
She is not smiling.
“The thought of feeding live crickets to Og is so upsetting,” she says. “Even though I understand that’s what he ate in the wild.”
True. On a perfect day, I ate crickets. On other days, I made do with less tasty bugs.
“Also,” she adds, “that cricket jar has an awful smell. You know how I feel about bad odors.”
“Can’t your students feed him?” Bert asks.
Mrs. Brisbane looks down. I think she is embarrassed. “I can’t ask them to do something I don’t want to do. What kind of role model would that make me? I’ve been having Aldo feed him after school.”
Mr. Brisbane nods. “Sue, I don’t want you to be upset every time you feed Og. Are crickets the only thing frogs eat?”
“No,” I tell her. “You could feed me mosquitoes and dragonflies and spiders, fish, crayfish, shrimp, small snakes and snails.”
“BOING!” Mr. Brisbane snaps back in a very froglike way.
“BOING!” I answer, and I’m truly sorry that’s all he hears.
“Oh, Bert,” Mrs. Brisbane moans. “Do I sound silly?”
“Never,” her husband says.
I have to admit, Mrs. Brisbane is the least silly creature I’ve ever met.
“And there’s another problem,” Mrs. Brisbane continues, looking at my tank. “Some of my students are upset that Og was stolen from his home and probably misses it. Some of them think he should be returned to the swamp!”
“BOING!” I say.
“Is that a good idea?” Mr. Brisbane asks.
Mrs. Brisbane bites her lip. “I don’t know. I have to figure that out.”
I’m not sure, either. If I’m not going to get any more crickets, I’ll have to move back to the swamp. But how?
“Sue, let me do some research,” Mr. Brisbane says. “Maybe you don’t have to feed Og crickets.”
“BOING????” Which is my way of saying, “I can’t believe you said that!”
Is that his idea of being helpful?
Then I dive down into my water dish.
Mrs. Brisbane chuckles. “He’s very entertaining,” she says. “But I think before taking on a second classroom pet, I should have learned more about frogs and their environment.”
Mr. Brisbane pats her hand. “But you have a good heart, Sue.”
It’s true. My teacher has a good heart.
I have a good heart, too . . . I think.
For many hours that night, I think about whether I want to stay in Room 26 or go back to the swamp.
I’m not quite sure how my heart feels about either choice.
Late that night, long after the lights are out and the Brisbanes have gone to bed, I turn my thoughts to my favorite subject: crickets.
I’ve never known a life without crickets before. Mrs. Brisbane says they are smelly. I think they smell fabulous!
Mrs. Brisbane says they can be lucky. I think I’m lucky every time I catch a cricket. And I thank them for that!
As I think about crickets so much that night, I burst into one of my favorite songs.
Sing, all you crickets,
For life’s short but sweet.
Sing, all you crickets,
You’re so good to eat!
Sing, all you crickets,
For your zesty flavor.
Thank you, dear crickets,
It’s you that I savor.
Sing, all you crickets,
For being a treat.
Thank you so much for
Your life short but sweet.
I repeat the song several times (at least). I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when Mr. Brisbane enters the room again.
“A singing frog?” he says as he rolls his wheelchair up to my tank. “Og, you are a creature of many talents. Your voice sounds just like a banjo, which is a fine instrument.”
“Thanks!” I jump for joy several times. At least one human appreciates me!
“The thing is, Sue is a little squeamish about crickets,” he explains. “And of course, you’re not.”
“Not one bit!” I tell him. “I do my job, and they do theirs.”
“She really wants you as a classroom pet,” he continues.
Now, those are words I have wanted to hear, even if I’m not sure what my duties are.
“If we could just do something about the crickets . . .” he says.
In my experience, there isn’t much you can do about crickets . . . except eat them.
But Mrs. Brisbane is so kind to Tabitha and Sayeh and even me! I don’t want her to be upset.
“Maybe we can make some changes,” he says with a yawn. “So neither of you will be unhappy.” He chuckles. “Or unhoppy!”
This is a human who speaks my language. He sounds so much like Uncle Chinwag.
Soon, he rolls back to bed, and it’s time for me to rest as well.
After he leaves, it’s very quiet and peaceful. There is time to think. Float. Doze. Be.
There is also time to worry about the cricket problem.
The next morning, Mr. Brisbane tells his wife that he’s going to a place called Pet-O-Rama. As he wheels himself out to the car, Mrs. Brisbane watches from the window.
Then she turns to me and says, “Fingers crossed that he finds an answer.”
I don’t have fingers, so my webbed toes must do.
When Bert returns, he carries a big bag.
“Well?” Mrs. Brisbane asks.
“Pet-O-Rama came through,” he says. “Now let’s see if Og can do his part.”
Can I do my part? I was always hoppy to splash water on Granny Greenleaf when she started to dry out on a hot day. And didn’t I always volunteer to help the tiny tads with their leaping practice?
“I always do my part!” I tell them.
Bert answers with a silly “BOING.” He doesn’t sound much like a frog after all.
Mrs. Brisbane moves my tank onto the table.
“Here are our choices,” he says, reaching into the bag.
Mrs. Brisbane and I stare hard as he pulls out a bright green jar. I like the color!
“Mealworms,” he announces.
Mrs. Brisbane gasps. “I’m not sure what they are, but they sound awful.”
I don’t agree. A nice, wet worm can be quite refreshing on a hot day. And filling!
“You could give him a regular wiggly worm,” Mr. Brisbane says. “But I think you would prefer these dried ones, Sue. They’re called Mighty Mealworms.”
“Dried worms? Ewww!” I gag at the thought of eating them instead of wet and wiggly worms.
Lucky for me, they think I just said, “BOING!”
Bert takes out some dried-up thing and tosses it into my tank.
I’m thinking no way, until I see Mrs. Brisbane’s face staring hard at me.
“Oh, please, Og—like it!” she whispers.
She did say “please,” so I give it a try. It has a crispy crunch and a tart worm flavor.
“Not bad!” I exclaim.
Mrs. Brisbane looks thrilled. “I think he likes it!” she exclaims.
“Humphrey would like these, too,” Mr. Brisbane says. “The man at the pet store said so.”
Really? Humphrey and I might actually like the same thing?
Bert reaches in the bag again. “Now, here is something called Froggy Fish Sticks.”
I like the sound of that!
He opens a yellow jar and throws a tiny twig into my tank.
Twigs aren’t usually tasty, but I see Mrs. Brisbane anxiously watching me.
What have I got to lose?
I grab the twig with my very long tongue and am pleasantly surprised. It’s sweeter than the Mighty Mealworms. Crunchier, too.
“BING-BANG-BOING!” I say. “Not bad at all!”
Mrs. Brisbane smiles at her husband. “I think he likes that one even better!”
I do. It wasn’t the same as a nice juicy cricket, but she looks so happy, I leap up and pretend to jump for joy.
“One more thing.” Bert reaches in the bag again. What other delights does he have in there?
“Og will miss his crickets, so once in a while, you could give him a treat with this.” He pulls out something thin and hollow, like a straw.
“It’s a wand that will catch a cricket in a jar and you—or one of your students—can fling the cricket into the tank without touching it,” he explains.
A wand! A magic wand, if it can fling crickets my way.
Mrs. Brisbane looks serious, but she nods. “I could do that once in a while. But the jar!”
“If you bring the jar home, I’ll take care of cleaning it,” Bert says.
“You are my hero!” I shout as I bounce around my tank.
The Brisbanes laugh. I don’t care if they think it’s funny.
The cricket problem is solved. I hope now that Mrs. Brisbane and I can both be hoppy.
I guess Mr. Brisbane is, too. Because the last thing he takes out of the bag is a lovely piece of moss which he adds to my rock.
“Thank you!” I say because Granny Greenleaf taught me to be polite.
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
Later that evening, I think up a song about mealworms.
Mealworms are mighty
And they taste all righty,
Though not quite as yummy
As crickets in the tummy.
Fish sticks are dandy
And they come in handy,
Though without the appeal
Of a tasty cricket meal!