Buttered Frog.

Seven years old. Summertime in the Welsh valleys with the sun so hot it melted the tarmac on the roads.

We`d been to the park, my little brother and me. We`d rolled in grass, soared on the swings and found a perfect, tiny baby frog. No bigger than a berry.

I picked it up and gently carried it home cupped in the palms of my hands, feeling its tiny movement as I walked.

It was salad for tea and already the butter on the kitchen table had melted to half its size.

“Mam look! We`ve got a baby frog. Look at it!”

With pride I opened my cupped hands.

“Oh! Uchafi!  Get it out of here! I don`t want it jumping in the salad!”

She turned away and that`s when it happened. The frog leaped out of my hands and straight into the butter dish.

My brother looked at me, eyes wide with horror. Frantically I tried to scoop it out but little fingers greasy with melted butter only succeeded in “drowning” it even more.

Then desperation led to success and we quickly fled.

In the garden, huddled out of sight behind the chicken cwtch we decided what to do. The poor thing needed water so we found an empty Asprin bottle, filled it from the tap and dropped the frog inside.

Hope faded as we watched the frogs bloated  Budda-like, buttered body rise and fall like bubbles in a Lava lamp. It was dead.

Mam`s voice broke the silence.

“Tea`s ready!”

In the kitchen was a pile of newly buttered bread.

“What`s the matter with you two? Aren`t you eating?  Get some bread and butter!”

“It`s o.k. I`m not hungry!”

“I`m not either!”

Our eyes met with one thought.  “Frog butter.  YUK !”