Hopping and squealing

Last night Paul and I stayed up till 1am watching a show on DiscoveryTimes.

Around midnight, Paul got up to go outside and pee (because God forbid he use the indoor toilet) and when he flipped the foot thingy down on the recliner something was flung out into the middle of the living room floor. I thought it was a piece of paper or wood chip. Then it hopped again.

It was a teeny tiny tree frog!

Of course, in my usual fashion, I began squealing and dancing around on my tiptoes because I don't like critters, especially ones that ribbit and hop. He turned on the overhead light as soon as he realized that my seizure was over a frog. In our house. He dove for it. Imagine, this 6'1" tall man, diving like a professional ball player for a tree frog no bigger than an oversized booger. And missing.

There was cussing. There was hopping. There were futile attempts to dig it out from under the TV cabinet where it found refuge. There were squeals from me when Paul thought he'd just roll the cabinet out to retrieve the frog, but all I could envision was smashed frog guts in my carpet.

Finally the teeny tiny tree frog was stupid enough to take about a half-hop out to check things out and Paul caught him as he proclaimed, "Gotcha, ya little fucker!"

After he deposted the little amhibian outside, he came inside and sincerely said, "Okay, dear. When we start finding critters in the living room, it's really time to clean house."