Pamela Gwyn Kripke and the Fire Bellied Toad

Readers of this blog will know how the Phantom regards Texas, but today's NY Times demonstrates that even in the darkest of places there may beat a true and admirable heart. Just read Dallas-based Pamela Gwyn Kripke's piece about her relationship with a fire bellied toad, and the crisis of conscience, the existential angst wrought upon a sentient being by another sentient being--one who eats live crickets.

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/03/26/the-value-of-a-life-though-toxic-and-tiny/

Hopefully, this link will work, but if not, google Ms. Gwyn Kripke. Be resourceful. You will be rewarded.

This article had resonance in a personal way for the Phantom.  Some years ago his older son allowed the Phantom and his wife to meet his girlfriend, a young lady he had been dating for unspecified duration, but since this was the first time we had ever been allowed to meet a girl, we were interested in what the night might bring.

She was late getting to the restaurant in Manhattan and the Phantom was sent outside to scout the street and fetch her in. "But I don't know what she looks like," the Phantom protested.  "You'll know her. Just look for Tinkerbell."

The Phantom walked outside, pondering what that might mean, but soon enough, it became clear: Floating down the street street a ninety pound waif,  pixie cut hair, black skirt and leggings, tailored black leather jacket, headed right for the restaurant. 

During the dinner, as parents, we exercised that time honored prerogative of all parents, i.e., we tried to maximally embarrass our offspring. When he was a teenager, we could embarrass him by simply being present, by breathing the same air in the same room as his friends. Now, we had to work harder.

So, I told the story of the time we had gone for a hike in some national forest and our son had captured a frog, which he held between his hands, intending to get it back to our car and transport it home. His younger brother grumbled about imprisoning animals, the wickedness of zoos, but the older son had his prize and meant to keep it. 

Just as we reached the dirt road to the parking lot, the frog managed to leap out of his hands and into the path of an oncoming Jeep, driven by a park ranger and all that was left of that frog was the flat outline in the tire track. The timing had to be exquisite, but the frog was dead, or as Maud would say, that frog was undeniably and reliably, not just merely, but most sincerely dead.

The son's eight year old shoulders slumped, head hung down, "I was responsible," the kid said. "If it hadn't been for me, that frog would be alive right now."

The girlfriend, now 16 years later laughed at that. 

Conversation danced along for another hour or two, and we finally got out into the dark New York night, after ten. It was starting rain and sleet a little.

Standing outside the restaurant, the Phantom gave his son a $20 bill, telling him to take a cab back to Brooklyn. It was late and why should he and Tinkerbell wind their ways through subways and wet streets?

"Well, but Manhattan taxicab drivers hate driving to Brooklyn. And I live in a dicey part"--He lived in Bushwick then--"Why should some poor cabbie have to take the risk? And he'd never get a return ride."

"Oh!" Tinkerbell laughed.  "We never did get over that frog! Did we?"

Walking back to our hotel, my wife said simply, "She's a keeper."  

She did not have to explain.