Dead Frogs

I'm not exactly sure why, but there is a box of dead frogs in my classroom. In my storage cabinet, on the shelf just below the American-Literature anthologies rests a cardboard coffin holding 10 plastic-wrapped frogs.

"We think the students will be too excited and eager to see the frogs, so we thought it best to hide the frogs until Friday, the day of the dissection." Of course. That sounds logical: Hide the formaldehyde pickled frogs in my Literature cabinets.

I stood outside my cabinets, imagining the frogs belly up with "X" marks instead of eyes. I had to look at them. There was some force compelling me to look at the corpses. Even though I knew it would be unpleasant, I pushed forward, opened the cabinet, and removed the Fedex frog box.

I unfolded the cardboard flaps and peered in over the edge. My body was tense, preparing for a possible strike from a zombie frog breaking for freedom.

But there was no escape attempt: just speckled frogs vacuum packed and stiff from latex injected into the veins. I got close to one of the frog's faces. The lids were closed over the dehydrated pebble-sized eyes, and his head seemed flatter than I thought it would be.

I feared the idea of the dead frogs at first. But sharing a moment with them, alone in my classroom, I felt somewhat like an accessory to murder. Though their blood was replaced with chemicals, and their lives probably taken months ago, the dissection seemed more like an execution.

My cabinet feels like death row.