There’s this species of frog that’s dying out because the tadpoles never let themselves metamorphose.
Don’t look it up. You won’t find any information about them in articles or scientific papers.
But I’ve seen them. They swim in the creek behind my old house, in the town where I grew up.
Bunches and bunches of polliwogs, swimming in schools, pretending they’re fish.
Their bodies know they’re destined to become frogs. It’s written in their genes.
I watch them swim against the current of time. They develop little stumps where their back legs will grow in. This always causes panic. Upon noticing, these polliwogs gobble up their legs before they can sprout.
It’s always a sight to see, frenzied tadpoles gnawing at their mutating bodies. It never stops the legs from growing back in.
A caterpillar became friends with the group in the creek, back when I still lived there. He shared their fears. That’s probably why they got on so well.
I overheard him once, nibbling on a leaf perched above the creek,
“Once I change, I won’t have a mouth like this,” he muttered between munches, “and all I like to do is chew leaves.”
He paused, watching a butterfly flit through the air.
“And I’ll have these great big wings that look awfully cumbersome. I’ll have to learn to fly. No more crawling, no more wriggling.”
He wriggled at that, just to remind himself he still could.
“I don’t know what happens in the chrysalis. I don’t think I can bite off my legs and turn back to myself. I don’t think I’ll even be able to bite anymore.”
The tadpoles bit at their legs. The caterpillar bit at his leaf.
“If we turn into frogs,” one polliwog piped up, “we’ll have to eat animals. Flies and worms and slugs and all sorts of bugs.”
“Like me,” said the caterpillar.
“Like you,” said the polliwog.
The caterpillar took another bite from his leaf.
“You know what I’m gonna do?” He chewed methodically. “I’m gonna live as long as I can as a caterpillar. Munch my leaves, wriggle my body. And when the urge to pupate comes, which, as I’m told, is inescapable,” he took another bite, “I’ll hang myself in my chrysalis.”
A twig crunched beneath my feet, giving up my hiding place behind the bush. The tadpoles scattered. The caterpillar stared at me.
We looked at each other for some time in silence.
“You want my advice?”
I nodded.
“Don’t grow any bigger.” With that, he crawled away.
Caterpillars always give the same advice.
I did go back to my hometown three summers ago. It was nice, but not the type of place I could’ve stayed long. I couldn’t fit anymore. All my old friends had become frogs without me.
I stared at my old house like a crab stares at her shell that doesn’t fit anymore. At least, how I think a crab would stare at her old shell. I’d never known any crabs.
I walked back to the creek. Covered in moss just like I’d left it.
On the bank, I saw a frog. Fully grown, only one front leg remaining, the appendage shoved in its mouth, mid-chew. It was rotting. Guts on display.
A butterfly swooped down on it, unfurling its spiral tongue, and plunged it into the corpse. Drinking eagerly. It saw me and smiled, in the way only butterflies do, then flitted off to find some lovely flowers.
I miss those legless frogs. I haven’t been back to that creek since. Probably they’ve all died out by now.
