Good Luck, Last Frog

I did something strange the other day. I "released" or "let go free" my last frog. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't take him grandly to a pond where he might find friends, nor back to the ditch where he was hatched. No, I let him go in my front, urban yard, on a rainy morning. I can't really follow my thought process to logically get to the "let him go--right here" outcome. But here are a few facts, not all of which definitely influenced, but could have influenced my improbable, illogical action:

Fact 1: I was hungover. I had trouble later that morning making other seemingly normal decision, such as whether to turn left at a green light w/no arrow.
Fact 2: Tayan and Zene had been gone for a few days, and I missed them.
Fact 3: It was raining very hard, and our cloudy front lawn looked as cool and inviting and full of tiny bugs as it possibly could.
Fact 4: I had been afraid every morning for awhile that Last Frog (finally named him this just now) would be dead when I checked on him, and I had started to fear that the ants I had been feeding him weren't--enough, I guess.

Whatever the impetus, I took the lid off the cage that I had revered for the last few moths, which I had pored for hours over, watching the tadpoles develop, reading about what they might be and how I might best raise them, watching them react to their artificial, natural-like environ... I took the lid off, caught the little guy, and let him go. I pictured him sinking down the long grass to the soil, which to his perspective looked much like the backyard looked to the shrunken kids in the popular Rick Moranis movie--only, he would feel at home there, finally, and would be able to easily, perhaps adventurously, find small insects that would help him to grow and be successful.

Now as I sit here 2 days later, I realize that the grass has grown quite long from all the rain, and it needs to be cut. And there are no sweet little ponds, or brooks, or even puddles to escape to in my 10'x10' patch of grass that is surrounding by unforgiving concrete.

I'm left wondering why, and coming inexorably back to the inkling that I loved my little frog, yet feared being the one thing that could and would keep him alive. I didn't trust myself to that task, and so like many houseplants, a hamster, and a large handful of hermit crabs have experienced in the past, I let him go to his own devices, such that they may be.

Good luck, Last Frog. I'm sorry I thought of that endearing name for you too late--maybe a cute name would've saved your life from me, caretaker and master of your likely death.