So, about that frog.

There he sat. Or squatted, rather. (Perched?) A frog. On the railing of my apartment building's back stairwell.

Don't ask me WHY there was an amphibian nesting on the railing of my apartment building's back stairwell, because I have no idea how such a thing occurs.

A) Hi, frog. You belong in the jungle, or something. Or a swamp. B) Not in a decrepit, brick building surrounded by a decrepit, concrete parking lot. And C) Why are you on the railing? I realize your full-time career is jumping, however, the railing? That's high. And, also, you're small. So that requires quite an impressive vertical hop. Or, of course, you used the suction of your bitty frog feet in order to scale the railing, in which case, gross.

I squealed a bit at the discovery of Frogger on the railing, did a double-take because, what, is that a FROG on the railing? Then shrugged it off and slinked back into my apartment. About a half hour later I realized, HOLY CRAP, there is a frog on the railing, and decided I needed proof. I grabbed the camera and darted back to the stairwell (and what ensued after, as you may recall, was the unfortunate Chicken Retaliation).

Kermit had leapt onto the stairs by this point, posing quite stoically on the top step.

Look at me, I am Frog. I am in your apartment building, and I don't know why I am here and someone take me back to the jungles of Africa. Or whatever. Er, ribbit. And someone get me a Scotch, dammit, this place is stale.

I captured him with my camera (ew, touch him? No) from several angles. And despite his pleas to be rescued and flown in his own personal jet to the wildlife refuge of Africa, I left him there. I secretly hoped no one would step on him, unaware until they heard the crunch, because then, of course, I'd feel awful. But then, as we know, Chicken attempted to flee the scene and my mind quickly wandered to other topics, such as, Chicken, I hate you.

The following day passed uneventfully as far as Frog Sightings go around these parts. I imagined Toad the Wet Sprocket had found freedom, much like Chicken had attempted. Only successfully. And I hoped his future held in store lily pads and flies in the crisp waters of rural Wisconsin (or Africa?), not dumpster diving and dodging cars. As Chicken would inevitably have it.

But then the following morning. There he was. On the railing. Again.

Ribbit.

OK, he didn't actually "ribbit," but I imagine the story would be much more thrilling had he actually done so. Frank F. Frog was covered in dust bunnies. Clearly he doesn't keep a Swiffer Sweep & Vac in his closet, which is apparently in the basement of my apartment building because WHY ELSE is there a frog in my building? Hello. I do not know the answers to these questions.

However, this time I pitied the surly amphibian, and picked him up IN MY OWN HANDS and brought him to freedom. No, not the jungles of Africa, sorry, I had to be to work in 45 minutes, no time for an African safari, REGARDLESS of how badly I wanted to take one at 8:30 a.m. on a Monday morning. Of course. But no, I sent him to the small strip of grass next to my building. He will probably hate it there, and he will probably turn to drinking and get mixed up in the rough crowd, but hey, I can only do so much for my amphibian counterparts. And, hi, frogs don't belong in stairwells.

So let us all pray that Fred The Frog has found freedom. Or, at least, that he hasn't been eaten by THE BAT that apparently lives in the stairwell of the apartment building next door. I mean, honestly. Maybe Froggy had it right and we DO actually live in a jungle. The bizarre wildlife outnumbers the bizarre people, of which I am not one of, I might add.