I am terrified, horrified of mice. I don't talk about them with my feet on the floor, don't even like Mickey Mouse.
A friend on Facebook is posting nearly every day about the frogs in her yard and how much she hates them with others offering up advice on how to deter them.
Here is my frog story.
Or rather my dad’s.
My dad did not do frogs, no way, no how. When he would find one in the yard, he would ask me to remove it. Since he did the same thing with mice for me, I understood.
When Daddy was on his second tour in Vietnam, he was stationed at Bien Hoa, not far from Saigon. While a relatively safe place, as far as war zones go, there was the occasional attack. The military quarters did not have bathrooms – it was a walk across the compound. Daddy felt the urge one night and began the stroll to the latrine wearing only his boxers and flip-flops. He stepped on a sizeable frog. He jumped, the frog jumped and became entangled in his flipflop. He let out a blood-curdling scream and the guards thought there was incoming enemy fire. They threw on every spotlight, every search light, only to find my dad standing in the middle of the post, in his skivvies, having a melt down.
His colleagues thought it quite funny and, since the frog scratched him, awarded him a “pink heart.”
He failed to see the humor, but kept the award.