Tadpoles. Those are tadpoles. Let's get that straight right off. I run in a park in southeastern PA. I found these tadpoles swimming in a puddle one day. I am a city girl through and through. My idea of the country is Deliverance, the country is a scary place. Cities I get. Anyway, I've been excitedly watching these tadpoles develop and making them my own. On Friday, to my utter horror and despair, the brutes at the park service filled in the puddle with sand. I ran home and called my husband sobbing. I know, I know they're tadpoles. But they were my tadpoles, get it? There were about five left in a footprint size puddle. My lion-hearted knight came home and took me to the park to rescue the remaining tadpoles. In the course of digging along the edges and sifting the sand through our fingers we managed to rescue between two and three dozen and relocate them to a safe place. After they got good and soaked many began swimming about. Not only that, my tadpoles were farther along in development than the tadpoles they joined in their new home so I can tell which are my tadpoles.
How lucky are those tadpoles and how lucky am I?