Froggie.

Last night at Grandma Weir's house, Pearl and the grandkids spent a lot of time with a frog they caught. They made a house and a pond with an island and even caught a companion. Pearl is feeling pretty good about this because she's being so nice to the poor frog who had a splinter (bark?) on his poor little leg.

So, this morning, she gets going making a frog house again with random stuff on the porch (I'm embarrassed to say there is a lot to choose from...). She looks through the garden for a frog, but all she sees are lizzards and a snake (she thinks it was a snake, I couldn't find it...). So, I take her under the house to the cold cellar (yes, our house is 110 years old) where the frogs like to hang out. So, she catches one, removing it from it's preferred environment and taking it to her "froggie rescue" shelter. While I appreciate the irony of this, she certianly does not. Of course, it hopps blithely away at first chance, and Pearl is sad. 10 minutes later she comes to me crying because she just realized that she wasn't being nice, she was being MEAN because she's actaully TRAPPING them! I try very hard to choke back my laugh, hug her and tell her yes, they already had a happy home, and convince her to move her habitat under the house. Silly girl.

Her other bit of logic today... "mom, I can be a vet, because even mean animals will be nice to me when they're feeling sick." As I don't think theres a chance she'll actually become a vet, (come one, she's a natural born dietician, and with her aunt and grandma both dieticians, she doesn't stand a chance) so I didn't bother to go into that one...