Last night I dreamt of galleons, three-masted schooners, and other sailing vessels conscripted into service as pirate ships. Pirate ships that took to the air when they’d weighed anchor.
But that isn’t the strange part of this dream. This is:
I had a pet frog, so large that he filled my hand like a cobble-stone. His name was Frog. Whether I named him or had inherited him already so named, or he’d named himself I don’t know.
Frog was substantial. Frog was black — no, not quite accurate. Frog was covered in fine black fur, about an inch long and silky-soft to the touch, with a small grey blaze between his bulbous yellow eyes. Frog had a short tail, grey like his blaze, that he would wag when he was happy or excited — which made me suspect he was still partly tadpole.
Frog demanded, through various tones and rhythms of croaking, to be scritched like a cat. When I walked he hopped along beside me, croaking-humming to himself as we went.
“As fine as frog’s fur” was a saying we had back in the Deep South, a polite rhetorical response when asked “How are you?” I find myself surprised that so few folks beyond that region ever heard it, considering how universal “Ya’ll” has become.