One day long, long ago there lived a little brown frog called Croaky,
who lived a happy and contented life in a small pond to the rear of an
old man’s wild and neglected garden. Other than the old man, Fred
was his name, no one ever ventured anyway near the pond, and this suited
Croaky just fine, for he preferred the solitary life anyway. All day long
he was free to do anything he wanted, be it swimming happily in the still
waters, lazing about on any one of the many lily pads scattered across
the water’s top, or simply hiding beneath one of marginal plants,
where he could sleep the day away, if he felt so inclined.
Fred also lived a rather solitary life, most of his relatives having long
since passed away. The only ones still alive were his younger sister,
Edith and her son, an only child, going by the name of Brutus, who visited
him twice yearly, as regular as clockwork. Apart from them no one ever
came anyway near to his front door. And like the frog, this suited Fred
down to the ground.
Our story begins one sunny summer’s afternoon, with Croaky sitting
on his favourite lily pad, enjoying the sun while lying in wait, watching
the flies buzzing to and fro over the pond, hoping that one of them landed
nearby, or at least slowed down enough, to allow him an opportunity to
secure his next meal. But there were so many flies flitting around, Croaky
didn’t know which of them to watch.
Then he heard a sound, a low droning buzz, quite different to the usual
insect sounds that he had become accustomed to hearing. This new one was
an altogether more courser sound. Tilting his head over to one side, Croaky
tried to hear it clearer. It was a fly, he was quite certain of that,
but so different from any that he had up until then heard. As he continued
to listen, the sound grew louder and louder, so loud Croaky imagined it
must be the mother of all flies coming his way.
As he waited for it to appear his tummy growled, reminding him how hungry
he really was. Sitting stock still, Croaky dared not move a muscle, lest
he scare the meal away before he had even seen it.
As the fly, if that’s what it really was, came closer and closer,
the sound from it’s wings continued to grow louder and louder, so
loud Croaky began to get scared, wondering if he might end up being the
hunted instead of the hunter. Then it appeared, a large, blue coloured
fly the likes of which he had never before seen. As he gazed up at it
in wonder, at the fantastically beautiful iridescent shiny blue fly, the
bluebottle, Croaky’s eyes never left it.
Watching with growing curiosity, he though the poor thing must have been
tired, or old, or perhaps even stupid, because it sauntered over the pond
like it owned the place. Maybe it thought that it was far too big to be
considered a potential meal by any frog. Continuing to saunter over the
pond like it hadn’t a care in the world, the bluebottle flew closer
and closer to Croaky. His lips dribbled saliva, thinking of the mother
of all meals coming to him, a meal that would surely keep him going for
well over a week. It was now so low and so close Croaky felt that he had
no other option other than going for it.
With his tummy growling, Croaky leapt into action, shooting out his frog
tongue with lightening speed at the mother of all flies.
He missed it, he actually missed it, and, more peculiarly that that, the
bluebottle appeared not to have even noticed the attack. Croaky was still
in with a chance.
Squatting lower, Croaky flattened his body against the lily pad, wishing
that he were a green frog and not a brown one.
All of a sudden the bluebottle set off in a different direction, away
from the pool, towards the top of the garden and the old man’s house.
His heart sank; to have been so close to such a grand meal, only lose
it so carelessly was unforgivable.
Feeling more blue than brown, Croaky slipped off the lily pad and began
swimming across to the water’s edge and the marginal plants, beneath
which he could hide, where he could sleep and forget about the missed
meal and his growling, empty tummy.
Clambering out from the water, he found a cool, damp spot beneath one
of the plants, a large blue leaved Hosta, where, closing his eyes, he
drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke (he had no idea of how long he had actually been sleeping),
Croaky listened to the sounds of the flies and insects buzzing about outside,
wishing that one, just one of them were in his empty tummy. Although he
was so hungry, he had no intention of going out into the heat of the day,
no, he would wait until later, when the heat had diminished. Only then
would he return to the pond and attempt to secure his supper. So closing
his eyes once again, Croaky drifted off to blissful slumber, dreaming
of the one, the huge one that had got away…
