Ok, not our babies. But somebody’s babies.

With the advent of the monsoon rains, came a certain bullfrog creature to our front yard pond. A very LOUD bullfrog. Who was evidently in need of a little companionship. So it would go something like this: Torrential rain followed by fortissimo frog croaking for at least 45 minutes.

And last week, there were about 50 of these suckers in front pond, being watched over by Friederich:

Yes Virginia, there are tadpoles. In my pond. Slowly metamorphosing into frogs.

The good thing about frogs adopting your property as their mating/nesting/child-care centre is that you don’t have to do anything about if you don’t want to. Which is a stark contrast to the two nests of birds (wrens, we think) that we had on the back patio this spring. That was emotionally exhausting. The first batch kept falling out of the nest and were promptly rescued by Mr. T, who braved many a dive-bomb by mama bird as their local, one-man emergency response team. I, of course, was away for the week-end on a gig, but provided psychological support. We held our breath to see if she’d actually come back to attend to her babies, now rescued from certain death. Luckily she was a sensible mama and soon enough was doing all the proper mama bird things like regurgitating moth bits and actually teaching them to fly.

The second mama bird was not so lucky nor so sensible. She moved in pretty much right after the first bunch had vacated, promptly laid four eggs (FOUR! Two had been downright scary!) in a used nest and sat down to brood.  Unless we decided we’d like to have coffee on our very on patio and then she turned into a diving, flapping, nervous monster-devil. Luckily (for us) the eggs were duds, but she sat on those suckers pretty determinedly for well past the usual gestation period.

But back to our babies!

Having tadpoles has been interesting for a bunch of reasons. I’ve never actually watched anything growing it’s own arms and legs before. You can also tell that the smart ones actually stick to the bottom of the pond. We’ve had an uptick in pigeon visitors to the pond recently and I’m pretty sure some of those dudes became lunch. Ok, a lot of them. And I also discovered that taking pictures of anything in or under the water is aggravating.

I wish you luck in your endeavors, little tailed-ones. May you grow leggy and hoppy and croaky.

Update: We have wren fledglings in the cherry tree in the backyard. Ella almost ate one. I think we’ve about had enough bird procreation for one season.