The final words I heard last night before drifting off to sleep were these:“Just so you know – there’s a toad in the living room.”
Thus continues the never ending saga of my cat, Garfunkle, and his determination to bring us every conceivable essence of wild life.
Upon hearing those words, I didn’t open my eyes. All I could do was ask for clarification.
“Is it really a little toad, or is it big, like, you know, a bull frog?”
I don’t know why I asked, it really didn’t make a difference. There was an amphibian in my living room.
I could hear the smile on his lips, the laughter in his voice.
“A frog. The Infinite Frog.” I smiled to myself then, it having conjured up a memory.
But I was already asleep. My mind took me back to me standing at the altar of one of the city churches I managed, included in the armful of several that the Bishop intended on closing.
I was in the process of creating a poster containing different statutes within the church, as well as portraits of priests who had served the community. This little church, to me, looked no bigger than a garage. But it had been host to the grandest of weddings, the modest of baptisms, and the air had been filled with choirs of true little angels, singing for all the world to hear – or at least this part of the city. It was a conglomeration of memories and ideologies, and overlay of feelings captured by a photographer I had hired for this purpose.
He was also a musician, but was equally talented as an image weaver. He clicked and snapped and shot the pictures of statues and paintings, at every conceivable angle and level, sometimes twisting his body into unimaginable poses to get the perfect frame.
Every Catholic church has an “Infant of Prague” statue – it usually sits as a greeting to all who enter. Whenever I asked him to take a picture of this, however, he would look at me quizzically and seemed to blow it off.
I couldn’t understand his blatant refusal to take a picture of this very sentimental statue – and I asked him why.
“Why won’t you take a picture of the Infant of Prague?”
He looked at me and a smile began to fill his face.
“Say that again, will you?”
So I repeated The Infant of Prague and he then told me what his dilemma was.
In my own unenviable way, my Queens accent seems to come to the forefront of the most inopportune times.
“I thought you were saying “The Infinite Frog.”
We had a great laugh, and he continued to snap away. I never thought of it again until the announcement of the one visiting.
Which brings me back to my friend in the living room.
Hopefully he will have hopped out the way he came in, but I thought it odd that a frog would decide to spend the night.
I guess everyone needs an Infinite Frog to look after them.
© 2009 Eileen Loveman – 4/7/16