I am mortified. I pride myself on being a sensitive soul and an animal lover.
Not too long ago I felt a surge of paternal pride when the first frog of the season appeared in my pond.
It was so small it was clearly one of the two or three tadpoles that overwintered in the pond. It appears to be the only one that made it through to spring. I see no sign of the others. Also I was mystified by the absence, or non-emergence, of the 20-odd adult frogs that were hanging around last year. I felt sure some of them would have been hibernating in the sanctuary I constructed, or somewhere nearby, and would have shown up by now. But nary a sign.
This new little fellow was quite placid and unafraid and was regularly resting on the little hollow log every day. I was very concerned when after a few days I did not see him any more. I laid the responsibility on Cholmondeley Snailcrusher, a bobtail who also lives in the little sanctuary.
I consoled myself that such is the nature of the great mandela. Even a bobtail has to eat and even though I would prefer him to stick to the garden snails and the vegetable and fruit scraps I leave out, he has a right to do what comes naturally.
Then I found him. Flat and dehydrated on the bark mulch path beside the pond. I think I may have inadvertently trodden on him. Bugger. I feel bad about it.