Someone recently asked me if I have a pet. A normal person would answer that with a simple yes or no. I should have answered it easily, too, but I didn’t. I stood there for a few seconds, genuinely confused, and realized I wasn’t sure anymore. If you had asked me six months ago, the answer would have been a very confident no.
But then we bought this house.
We moved in this July. When we first toured it, I saw the koi pond in the backyard and its many special features: a beautiful waterfall, clean stone edges, and glimmering fish. It was all very magazine-like and also very far from the kind of responsibility I ever wanted. The seller told us she was taking her fish. I was relieved. A pond without fish felt decorative, not alive. Something pretty to look at, nothing to feed or take care of. Perfect.
As we walked around the pond that day, taking in the sound of running water, I heard a croak. My fully city-bred brain decided the noise was coming from a hidden pond speaker the seller had installed for ambience. I didn’t even consider the possibility that an actual animal could be in there. That’s how disconnected I was from nature. I brushed it off and forgot about it.
Fast forward. We bid on the house. We got the house. We moved in.
And then came the seller’s welcome letter. One of those long, sentimental “here are the quirks of this old place” letters. Somewhere in the middle of instructions about heating zones and antique but new windows, she casually mentioned that this year we have several new species of frogs in the pond. I froze. “Several species of frog.” What does that even mean? Why is no one panicking except me?
I closed the letter and pretended that line did not exist.
A few hours later, I stepped outside near the pond, and there it was again—a loud, unapologetic croak. I physically recoiled. It was real. There were frogs. I immediately started looking for the offender, but of course, like all creatures who enjoy psychological warfare, the frog stayed hidden.
And then one morning, I saw him. This slimy, weird little creature sunbathing on a rock like he owned the mortgage. Before I could even process my disgust, my five-year-old spotted him, fell in love, and named him Sippy. Just like that, the frog had a name and a place in the family. I hadn’t even finished saying “what the hell” before Sippy was fully adopted by my child.
That night, I was on ChatGPT, Googling in every direction.
How to get rid of frogs. How to discourage frogs. How to humanely relocate frogs. How to remove frogs from a backyard pond. Could frogs spread diseases? Could they attract other animals? Could I murder them legally?
Answers came back very matter-of-fact: frogs cannot be killed. It is against the law. I could relocate them, but realistically, frogs just come back. In other words, congratulations on your new tenants.
And as if the universe wanted to make it fun, I soon saw another frog. My son named him Slushy. Then another, quickly named Slurpy. Apparently, all amphibians sound like beverages to my son. So suddenly we had Sippy, Slushy, and Slurpy living rent-free in our backyard.
Meanwhile, I went slowly insane. I had nightmares of frogs taking over my house and little tadpoles jumping into the bath with me. Every day, I checked the pond for eggs. I picked up random pond debris and inspected it as if I were writing a dissertation on amphibian reproduction.
I Googled pictures of frog spawn like I was studying for a final exam. I bought lights. I bought sprays. I bought “frog discouraging” products that did absolutely nothing. The frogs thrived. I suffered. And every time one popped up, my son tried to befriend it.
But with all my obsessive research came inconvenient knowledge. I learned that frogs don’t spread disease. Rodents do (hello, cute-looking squirrels), but frogs don’t. I learned that they eat mosquitoes. All my neighbors complained about mosquitoes, and I barely had any. Why? Because my backyard now had a small army of mosquito-munching guardians. I slowly started to see them differently. Not cute, still creepy, but useful. Predictable. Harmless. Doing their job quietly.
By late summer, I wasn’t quite in love with them, but I had softened. I went from hatred to neutrality to resigned tolerance. They were here. I couldn’t control them. Fine. But if one sat too close to me, I still sprayed water in its direction until it relocated. Boundaries matter.
Then the weather started cooling down. By October, I wasn’t seeing them as often. By November, I wasn’t seeing them at all. And this is where something shifted.
I found myself checking the pond anyway. Not in the frantic way of summer. Not looking for eggs or counting frogs or hoping to assert dominance, finally. I was checking in quietly and passively. I would lift a leaf or glance at a rock and wonder if Sippy was tucked behind it. Not because I liked them. Not because I wanted them as pets. But because something in me was making sure they were okay.
I was surprised by this new instinct. I realized that although I never invited these frogs, I had gotten used to their presence. Their little croaks at dusk. Their heads popped out like green periscopes. Their nightly mosquito-control shifts. And how those small things were woven into the rhythm of our first few months in this house.
So when someone asked me, “Do you have a pet?” I suddenly didn’t know how to answer.
No, I don’t have a dog or a cat. I don’t have anything with fur, a leash, or a vet bill. But I do have frogs. Several of them. They came with the house. They stayed. And somewhere along the way, against my will, I started caring about them.
I wouldn’t call them pets. That feels dramatic. But I also wouldn’t say they are nothing to me.
They are small, slimy, unexpected parts of this place we now call home. They remind me that you don’t always choose the things you end up caring about. Sometimes you wake up one day and realize you are looking for frogs you once tried to evict.
And that is how I became the accidental frog mother of Westchester County.
