but the layer of poo in the bottom grew larger and so did the tadpoles. I couldnât empty it out to clean as I normally would because that would have been frogicide. I made sure to keep it topped up with cool water on hot days so they didnât stew, but I resisted putting in food for them in case it affected the water for the horses, who still had to drink from it when in the yard.
My dams are full of tadpoles so I guess the horses are used to them, but a tub doesnât offer the same scope for the tadpoles to escape an in-sucking horseâs mouth. I assumed the horses would sieve out any inadvertent traveller. I thought of Jonah and the whaleâsame scale differential really.
Then one rainy day when it was too wet to let the horses in, I relented and tore a leaf of flat lavash bread into pieces, letting them flutter down into the tub like the scraps of a discarded love letter.
At first the tadpoles didnât approach these strange pale papery objects that floated above them. Perhaps when these soften and disintegrate, I thought, theyâll get the idea that this is food, even if unlike anything ever seen in their tubby universe. As tadpoles have multiple rows of teeth, they shouldnât have trouble with the actual eating of it.
Then one of the smallest nosed up to a scrap and began nibbling. Just like with humans, itâs the kids who are game to try new things, who work out how to deal with new technology.
By the time I got back with my camera, the bigger ones had caught on and in twos and threes were swimming about pushing a piece of flatbread in front of them. Some were underneath, wearing the scrap like a hat, while smarter ones wedged it against the side of the tub to attack it. But some still werenât convinced. Luddites, I figured.
I thought theyâd be Bleating Tree Frogs when they grew up. Theyâd add to the large population already in the little dam. In times of thunder and rain, their overwhelmingly loud chorus sounds as if it emanates from hundreds of big frogs, whereas they are quite small. And as only male frogs call, there are possibly thousands of frogs in there!
A few weeks later, the tadpoles appeared to have stopped growing, let alone changing into frogs. The tiny rear legs still hung unused. They could have put metamorphosing on hold until better times, as some frogs can, but whether by choice or not, I decided that lack of the right nutrition must be the reason for not progressing. I began catching them in a sieve, tipping them into a bucket and transferring them to a more normal habitatâthe dam.
I was sorry not to have seen them change, but Iâm sure theyâre happier in their new home. But ... would the dam locals make them welcome, would they have any idea how to survive the predators after such a sensorially deprived childhood, would they even know what to eat, would the water be too dark and muddy for them after their peppermint green world? Had my enforced relocation sentenced them to death?
I couldnât help but recall a clunky rhyme from my Infants teaching days, so if itâs rattling round in my head, sorry, but youâll have to bear it too.
Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail.
His mother did not know him as he sat upon a log,
For little Tommy Tadpole was Mr Thomas Frog.
Well, the five-year-olds thought it was cute.
SEEKING A MATE?
While I have frogs on my mind, I must tell you about the strangest frog encounter Iâve ever had.
On this particular day, Iâd moved the food processor to the bench from its usual home on top of my little fridge, by the window. I was about to chop a small mountain of parsley and mint for tabbouli. A favourite salad of mine, itâs also ridiculously good for me, with those two vitamin- and mineral-packed fresh herbs making up its substance, for once behaving like greens instead of garnish. The double benefit always seems out of
My dams are full of tadpoles so I guess the horses are used to them, but a tub doesnât offer the same scope for the tadpoles to escape an in-sucking horseâs mouth. I assumed the horses would sieve out any inadvertent traveller. I thought of Jonah and the whaleâsame scale differential really.
Then one rainy day when it was too wet to let the horses in, I relented and tore a leaf of flat lavash bread into pieces, letting them flutter down into the tub like the scraps of a discarded love letter.
At first the tadpoles didnât approach these strange pale papery objects that floated above them. Perhaps when these soften and disintegrate, I thought, theyâll get the idea that this is food, even if unlike anything ever seen in their tubby universe. As tadpoles have multiple rows of teeth, they shouldnât have trouble with the actual eating of it.
Then one of the smallest nosed up to a scrap and began nibbling. Just like with humans, itâs the kids who are game to try new things, who work out how to deal with new technology.
By the time I got back with my camera, the bigger ones had caught on and in twos and threes were swimming about pushing a piece of flatbread in front of them. Some were underneath, wearing the scrap like a hat, while smarter ones wedged it against the side of the tub to attack it. But some still werenât convinced. Luddites, I figured.
I thought theyâd be Bleating Tree Frogs when they grew up. Theyâd add to the large population already in the little dam. In times of thunder and rain, their overwhelmingly loud chorus sounds as if it emanates from hundreds of big frogs, whereas they are quite small. And as only male frogs call, there are possibly thousands of frogs in there!
A few weeks later, the tadpoles appeared to have stopped growing, let alone changing into frogs. The tiny rear legs still hung unused. They could have put metamorphosing on hold until better times, as some frogs can, but whether by choice or not, I decided that lack of the right nutrition must be the reason for not progressing. I began catching them in a sieve, tipping them into a bucket and transferring them to a more normal habitatâthe dam.
I was sorry not to have seen them change, but Iâm sure theyâre happier in their new home. But ... would the dam locals make them welcome, would they have any idea how to survive the predators after such a sensorially deprived childhood, would they even know what to eat, would the water be too dark and muddy for them after their peppermint green world? Had my enforced relocation sentenced them to death?
I couldnât help but recall a clunky rhyme from my Infants teaching days, so if itâs rattling round in my head, sorry, but youâll have to bear it too.
Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail.
His mother did not know him as he sat upon a log,
For little Tommy Tadpole was Mr Thomas Frog.
Well, the five-year-olds thought it was cute.
SEEKING A MATE?
While I have frogs on my mind, I must tell you about the strangest frog encounter Iâve ever had.
On this particular day, Iâd moved the food processor to the bench from its usual home on top of my little fridge, by the window. I was about to chop a small mountain of parsley and mint for tabbouli. A favourite salad of mine, itâs also ridiculously good for me, with those two vitamin- and mineral-packed fresh herbs making up its substance, for once behaving like greens instead of garnish. The double benefit always seems out of
Similar Books
