“Look what I found, Ma! It’s a frog. A real, live, cute frog!”

“I can certainly see that. What a handsome-looking frog. Is he coming to visit for the day?”

“No way, he’s mine. He chose me to adopt him. He was waiting in a puddle, and baruch Hashem, I found him.”

“Baruch Hashem,” I echo, searching for the best way to deal with this. I start with a practical argument. “But Pinny, we don’t know how to care for a frog.”

“Well, frogs survive on their own, so how hard could it be? We’ll do some research. It will be educational.”

Yikes, he’s pulling the educational card. I’d better step it up with the halachah card. “Yes, but we don’t have a big tank. Keeping it in the Snapple bottle is tzaar balei chayim.”

“Maaaa, the bottle is just his traveling home for trips, restaurants, places like that. I’ll use my own money to buy fun stuff from the pet store, like a huge cage or tank with toys and fake trees. I’ll really learn responsibility, right?”

I slink down in my seat. “Right.”

The frog, now officially named Snapple, watches me with beady eyes. I stare back. I feel a twinge of hesitance about this responsibility that has fallen into my lap. (Not literally, thank goodness. Snapple is still safe in his Snapple bottle.) Unlike Pinny, who jumps into new tasks with a confident splash, I prefer to dip my toe into the water first. Ooh, that’s chilly.

But I want to set a good example for embracing new challenges, so we head home to do our research. Pinny points out all the things I can decant so that he can give his pet a bigger home. I can empty the big pretzel container, my prized Lucite granola bar bin, the cookie cutter box….

As much as I clearly, definitely, absolutely adore Snapple, I don’t want to donate anything I like to this frog. I have strong suspicions that he will die soon, followed by emotional angst and a backyard burial. The problem is that I’ve been there, done that. Pinny hasn’t. He doesn’t remember Tzvi’s fish or Shuey’s hermit crab.

Whether we decide to keep Snapple, right now, he needs some flies, and Pinny knows just where to find them. He finds a veritable smorgasbord of insects in the electric fly zapper. I wince and suddenly remember that we have a jar of freeze-dried worms, once purchased for a goldfish’s Pesach menu. Yes, they’re old, but I doubt they spoil. Maybe the flavor improves with age.

I am vacillating, but I feel myself weakening. I bring up some rules. We can only keep him outside on the porch. Pinny has to wash his hands with soap every time he touches Snapple. As we discuss all this, my heart tells me that this won’t end well. Should I warn Pinny of that possibility? Or should I trust that he’ll be able to deal with whatever comes next?

Pinny warbles away in the background. “Look at how he recognizes me already. He’s so smart. I can teach him tricks.” I have some tricks for Snapple to learn. How about disappearing back to nature and leaving my Lucite granola bar bin alone?

I have a hard time accepting added responsibilities in my day-to-day life. I doubt my ability to learn and change. But Pinny isn’t stuck in overanalysis. He dives right in without hesitation.

And I love Pinny and how enthusiastic he is about life — how positive he is, how much confidence he has that he can learn new things and do them well.

So for today, I choose to shelve my gloom-and-doom predictions as we punch holes into the lid of an old storage bin and arrange areas with sticks, pebbles, leaves, and moss. I don’t know if Snapple will survive and thrive, but I’m ready for whatever follows in this ribbiting adventure.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 929)