“Well, here we are,” said the frog, to nobody in particular. It just seemed like the right thing to say, given the situation he was in.
And that situation, of course, was that he was in water — which should come as no surprise to anybody. Frogs love water, and this frog was no exception. Like all frogs, this frog could think of no place he would rather be than to be sitting in water, which he was.
Except that this frog was not sitting in the water of a lake, or a river, or even a pond or a puddle. He was sitting in a pot of water. Which was fine with this frog, because who wants to share the water with all those low-life turtles, clams, and snails that hang around in rivers, lakes, and ponds?
So an isolated private pot of water was exactly where this frog wished to be.
But this frog’s pot of water was on a stove. And the water was starting to feel pretty warm. Maybe even uncomfortably warm.
Still, he was a frog, and this was water he was sitting in. And a frog, once in water, likes nothing better than to keep sitting in it.
And so: “Here we are,” the frog kept saying to himself, trying to convince himself that the warming water he was sitting in was just froggy fine.
He couldn’t remember exactly how long he had been sitting in the potful of water, only that he had jumped into it willingly some time ago. And he remembered how delightful and delicious it felt when he first splashed into the pot.
And he didn’t have a very clear memory of exactly where he had been sitting before he jumped into the pot. All he remembered was that splashing into that pot’s welcoming water seemed cool and refreshing.
He was sure it must be better than wherever it was that he had been sitting before he jumped into the pot of water.
“Well, here we are,” he remembered breathing with a sigh of satisfaction.
And so he relaxed, as any frog in water would.
But outside of his little pot, other things were happening, things he didn’t fully understand or want to understand — even things that he denied were happening even though he saw them happening with his big froggy eyes.
And bit by bit, the dial on the stove got turned up.
And the water got warmer. And warmer still.
At first it was barely noticeable, but gradually he became aware that the water wasn’t nearly as cool and refreshing as it had been. But that was OK, because he was a frog, and he was sitting in water he had chosen to jump into. How bad could it be?
And the water got warmer. And warmer still.
In time the water became downright uncomfortable. He couldn’t remember if he had ever been in water this warm. This water started to feel wrong to him. He poked his big froggy eyes above the rim of the pot, looking for someone to blame.
But, still, he was a frog, and he was in water. He could take it. Besides, his situation must still be better than whatever situation he was in before he jumped into the pot of water, right? Or else why would he have jumped into it in the first place? He couldn’t remember too clearly, but that made sense, right?
So he decided to wait it out, trusting that soon, somehow, someone would make water cool again. Soon, very soon, there would be brisk and refreshing water, the likes of which no frog had ever seen.
Maybe in a week or two.
And the water got warmer. And warmer still. Tiny bubbles began to dance around him.
As a light mist of steam rose from the pot, he tested his legs, stretching and flexing them in the water. Although his legs had always been the strongest part of his body, it was now a burden to move them, as it had never been before. Now they felt weak and flaccid, almost as if his muscles had been melted by the warmth of the water.
Is this what total satisfaction feels like, he wondered? Or was it something else? Something far less pleasant — like paralysis?
After all, if you plunked a frog into boiling water, what frog in his right mind wouldn’t jump right out? No, the only way to boil a frog is to lure him into cooler water, and then to turn up the temperature, degree by devious degree.
But if the water got any warmer than this, the frog wondered, would his listless legs be able to jump out of the pot — even if he could summon the grit to do it? When would it be too late to swallow his froggy pride and leap for cooler waters? And even if he could make that happen, might the denizens of the lake refuse to welcome him back?
“Well,” said the frog, to nobody in particular, “here we are.”
And the water got warmer still.
And the bubbles around him grew larger and larger.
And the rising mist clouded around his eyes, blinding his vision.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
