The Death Of The Frog Croaks

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When The Frog Croaks At five years old, most children have no specific group they fit into. Everyone is their friend and their best friends change with the passing days. It was much like that for me, but I decided to become best friends with Martin (name changed to protect privacy) during the most coincidentally horrific time. Martin was a boy with wavy brown hair, light brown eyes, and the spirit of an adventurer. Nothing scared him, and as I 'd learn very quickly, there was a very good reason for that. He and I happened to be by the fence at the same moment when the animal caught our eye. It was a frog, but it was moving very strangely, it 's hop: more of a flop. It croaked, the sound startling both Martin and I, and we looked up at each other. He was delighted to see the frog, but I was more concerned about the horrible noise it was making. Martin reached down and picked it up, the frog struggling in his tight grip. I warned him to be careful, and we both examined the oddly bent back leg. We figured it was broken, and the frog was most likely in a lot of pain. Martin put the frog on the ground and pet it gently. He told me that it would be best if we killed the frog now, rather than allow it to suffer any further. There was no way I was going to let him kill the frog; it was still alive. I offered that we take care of it, at least until it got better. His argument went like this: If the frog doesn 't die, one of us will. He was reluctant, but eventually gave in. Yet,
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