Relative Something

Like a new squeak appearing on my bike, standing out like a crying baby on an airplane, a ratchety trill erupting from the vicinity of our landscape pond heralds the next phase of spring. Fresh green sprouts are bursting from dirt and branches at a dramatic pace each day. The sounds of migrating flocks of birds echo above the usual calls from resident pheasants and turkeys. Passing pairs of sandhill cranes offer a distinctly loud, rattling bugle call. But all those signs of the seasonal progress get overshadowed by a frog in the pond.

Yesterday, we pulled back the winter netting that collected fallen leaves over the last six months.

Before we even started to move the rocks holding the net, there was a very noticeable grunting chirp emanating from the immediate surroundings.

He kept it up after the net came off, as if thanking us for our service. Much of the time he was near impossible to spot but eventually, he swam out into the open and floated for a while. As Cyndie worked a net and rake to clean out old reeds and residual floating debris while I wrestled to position and hide the pump, filter, and tubing among the rocks.

The whole time, we were hearing from the frog. It began to feel like he was going to become a fixture there. I asked Cyndie if we should name him, offering “Oscar” in tribute to the famous croaker who lived up at the lake place when Cyndie and her siblings were spending childhood summers there.

She said it would need to be “Oscar Jr.” because the size of the sound he was making fell far short of fair comparison.

If he continues to hang around, I suspect I will refer to him as “Junior.”

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