Every summer throughout my childhood, my family and I took a canoe trip on the Fox River, a lazy river about 40 miles west of Chicago. We would float silently past woods and prairie and even through dark culverts (always ducking). One summer–I was about 8 years old–a bullfrog jumped into my canoe. I picked it up and wanted to bring it home. My parents said no, so instead, I held the frog, named him, let him hop around at my feet and reluctantly released him at the end of our float.
A few weeks later, the back of my entire hand was covered in warts. My mother was alarmed, she blamed the frog. My uncle burned two of the largest warts off and all the others disappeared. In a way, I was sad to see them go. I secretly knew that this event was a message from my bullfrog friend.
I love bullfrogs to this day! And I find floating down a lazy river in the humid mist a magical experience.