Bad Kitty was in a fog and an avocado she was squeezing wiggled back— she almost dashed it away but thank goodness she looked down, fearing a mouse or a bat and there in her hand was a creature—a frog, an alarmed white frog. “Oh,” said Bad Kitty, backing away from the fruit stand (her local), and gently making a sort of cage nest of both hands to hold the frog.
She told the fruit man she’d be back soon. He smiled her away.
“My goodness, I don’t feel drunk but I don’t feel sober either and I don’t feel quite like myself, drunk or sober”.
Bad Kitty searched her mind which was empty and sandy and Saharan. She stood a few feet from the fruit stand and gazed at the little guy. He looked back with haunting dark green wet eyes — no longer being squeezed, he blinked and was calm and calming. Where he had come from Bad Kitty couldn’t say. She kept trying to track her memory and felt there was something about those wet eyes, those dark shining eyes, and she tried to summon up any trace; she tried to walk back through the day, and only remembered drinking too much at her nephew’s birthday party and wondered if her sister-in-law might be gossiping about that—she tried to find more, but then decided to call off the search party.
Maybe she had had a small stroke. In that case adding any more pressure would be folly.
And after all, she had this ravishing frog—gently she placed him in her handbag.
Disjunctions aside, there she was with the magic frog. Yes, she felt a great quick conviction: He was magic.
And he did have a magical effect on her— she saw in a flash in her mind’s eye the beautiful huge old thick glass punchbowl she had saved from her aunt’s house. She saw it and without another thought wheeled off to PetCo, delighted and oddly alive. There was something in the air. She saw the cat lovers tempted by the cages of kitties for adoption and how much they wanted to help: Everyone seemed more alive.
Nothing pleases Bad Kitty more than a sense of purpose with a limited shopping list for a maximally fabulous end.
In short order she had several small plants —a few entirely aquatic—though she felt a swelling sense of deja vu as she pointed out the ones she wanted to the young fellow helping her– she pointed out a small snail which was dark brown with little white and yellow spots. Then she plucked up a large bag of dark green glass “pebbles” and a couple of plastic baggies of crickets (dried and live).
he opened the bag again and the frog on her wallet placidly regarded her and slid off the wallet very calmly, and only clambered a bit, spreading its white fingers and toes to remain at the top level of purse stuff.
In her apartment she shushed the cat with treats and petting and then loved making the punch bowl into a small frog land of paradise. The glass pebbles rose into a large flattish Island in the center more or less with plants all around and then a band of clear water for swimming. She added the snail. A little world. She lifted the frog in and set him atop the island. He gave a nod so positive it floored her.
She covered her eyes in shock but sensed the cat.
“No!” Bad Kitty exclaimed. She set a big art book over the punch bow’ls top. It didn’t quite cover it. Max edged closer.
“No no no!”
Luckily there was a cookie cooling tray and there were clothespins and duct tape: it didn’t look great and would have to be attended to but for now the little guy was safe. Soon that magic frog was making looping laps around his island. Max’s black tail twitched.