Blame it on animal magnetism, pure and simple

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

It's a clear case of anthropomorphism, a mouthful of a word that I had to look up in the dictionary, a word that is far, far longer than the miniature frogs I have anthropomorphized, meaning that I have credited them with having human needs and feelings.

Those poor things, I have been saying for 15 months. They must be lonely. They must be bored. They must be tired of living in such cramped quarters.

In the winter I worried that they'd freeze to death in my drafty kitchen. Now I worry that they'll cook in their own water.

I talk to them. I move them from counter to counter to give them a change of scenery. I shake their bowl at least a dozen times a day to make sure they're alive.

I leave the radio on when I go out so they won't be lonely.

And they are not even mine.

They belong to my grandson, Adam. His mother had warned, ``No animals for his birthday!'' But what she'd really meant was, ``No cat, dog, bird, rabbit, gerbil, or any living thing that I have to take care of!'' Two frogs the size of your average gummy bear surely did not count.

They were at the Village Toy Shop in Canton (I did not go looking for trouble), sitting on the checkout counter in a 5- by 4-inch plexiglass cube, which had colorful little rocks at the bottom. The frogs looked cheerful and they were silent - a fact I knew would please my daughter - and all they did was swim.

I thought, this is the perfect gift.

The frogs were guaranteed not to grow. They needed to be fed just twice a week. (``And not even that much if you're on vacation,'' the saleswoman effused. ``They can actually live without food for two weeks!'')

And, sealing the deal: Their little cubicle required cleaning - changing the water and scraping the sides - just once a year.

``Sold!'' I shouted. I taped a bow to their house and gave them to my grandson that afternoon. But his mother wrinkled her nose and gave them right back. ``Gross,'' she said.

So the frogs came to live with me.

And it's been fine, really. They require nothing but four pellets of frog food on Sundays and Thursdays, but I upped this about a year ago because the poor things always looked hungry.

My kids began to empathize with them, too. ``I think you should set them free. Would you want to spend you life in that disgusting water?'' one daughter said.

``I think they're trying to get out. Look. They're not swimming. They're thrashing. I bet they feel trapped,'' my other daughter added.

My husband, when pressed, said he wouldn't want to be those frogs.

Because they were eating more, the frogs grew more, and just like grow toys that start off the size of a dime, they all of a sudden morphed into silver dollars. Now there were two not quite miniature frogs living and swimming in the same cramped 80 cubic inches that they'd always lived and swam in. But now they were bigger.

So a month ago, I bought them a deluxe McQuarium twice the size of their old home.

Now my kids say, every time they stop by, ``The frogs do look happier.'' And my husband says, ``They seem to like it in there.''

And my grandson says, ``Mimi, look. The frogs are smiling.''

I never have to shake them to get them moving anymore.

They hop. They swim. They play. They seem to be enjoying themselves.

We think they're happy, therefore they are.

But is this true?

Or is this just a case of human beings thinking that all living things feel what we feel?

We watch them glide, frolic, chase each other.

They're happy. I know.