Several years ago, I was greatly impressed by a podcast about Leonardo DaVinci. The guest on the public radio show said something to the effect that we could all be like DaVinci. Perhaps we all couldn’t attain his artistic talent, but we could, like Leonardo, learn from the natural world around us simply by being astute, patient observers. DaVinci’s genius, using principles gleaned from nature, imagined the ornithopter, diving suit and automaton, among other fanciful and futuristic inventions. As I said, greatly impressed. Also influenced. At least that’s how I justify what might otherwise be viewed as my juvenile penchant for wading in streams, netting small critters, and introducing them into the miniature worlds of my aquariums. It’s not play; it’s science. I’m following DaVinci’s lead.

Last summer, under the guise of channeling his multidisciplinary renaissance mind, I got myself a couple of tadpoles. (You thought this was going to be turtles, didn’t you?). I brought them home and put them into a community tank with six goldfish and a golden shiner. Feeling confident that they would winter over in the 50-gallon tank, I planned to release them in the spring. But there is that thing Robert Burns said about best laid schemes oft going awry. They do.

Over the months, one tadpole grew, eventually sprouting back legs, with those legs becoming more functional each day. It grew front legs. This froglet (a metamorphosing frog that still retains a tail) now sat on plants at the top of the water breathing air, while the other tadpole showed little sign of advancing beyond its aquatic stage. Some tadpoles, lacking the amphibian equivalent of human leptin, will remain tadpoles for their entire lives. So it was that by February I had one tadpole and one little frog, identified – incorrectly – as a leopard frog.

Caring for Frog got old very quickly. It was difficult to keep his new terrarium home clean and I didn’t enjoy the constant trips to the pet store for live crickets. But most importantly, I didn’t want to do harm to this little creature that I kidnapped from his natural environment to satisfy my selfish, albeit DaVinci-inspired, curiosity. I made a commitment to return Frog to the outdoors as soon as possible.

Eventually, after an interminably long winter, frog-song – one of my favorite sounds in the world – could be heard on the evening air. As planned, I netted Frog, put him into a large plastic jar, and took the little bugger for a walk. After a quarter mile’s hike, we reached the pre-determined spot. I set the jar in the water at the pond’s edge for a few minutes, letting Frog adapt to the temperature. Then, I tipped the jar on its side and Frog jumped out. And there I left him, confident that he would be a great little frog.

I continued my springtime walk, but on the way back up the path, I stopped at the point where Frog and I had veered off to go to the pond. I hesitated, wondering if Frog was well hidden and safe. There was no need for lengthy agonizing on this quandary. Knowing myself, I just surrendered to the impulse and went to check on him. To my great relief, Frog was nowhere to be seen. A successful launch. And then that best laid schemes thing happened again. As so many parents have experienced, the kid came back. I reasoned it must have been a random jump that put Frog inches from where I was standing. And random timing. Unwilling to accept the situation as it seemed to be unfolding, I waved my arms over Frog in imitation of a swooping hawk. Frog stayed put. I made like a stalking heron and got the same result. Frog sat at my feet unfazed. Finally, I tempted fate by plunking the jar down in the water a few inches in front of Frog. Don’t tempt fate. It rarely goes well. Frog swam into the jar. Somewhere, Robert Burns is surely smiling.

Frog, I learned, is an American bullfrog. In many parts of the world the American bullfrog – the largest of the North American frogs – is considered an invasive species. Their native habitat reaches from Canada to Florida and from the Atlantic to the Rockies. On the endangered species scale it is considered of least concern. The National Wildlife Federation and National Museum websites tell us that bullfrogs eat just about anything that moves and fits in their mouths – including other bullfrogs. Unlike the attentive young-rearing practices of the African bullfrog (immortalized on video narrated by Sir David Attenborough), American bullfrog parents provide zero protection to their eggs or tadpoles and will even eat them. American bullfrog parents set a pretty low bar. It is probably because females typically lay 20,000 eggs at a time that the species is so successful. I was no longer feeling such a bullfrog parenting failure. Bullfrog reproduction evolved to suffer huge losses. I just didn’t want my particular bullfrog to become one of those losses.

Frog is back home with me. He is in a more maintainable enclosure now. He is also a she. You can tell the sex of American bullfrogs by the size of their tympanum—the membrane covering their ears. The tympanum of male bullfrogs is larger than their eye, while the tympanum of females tends to be smaller than their eye. Commercial bullfrog farming websites inform me that it will be two years before Frog is fully grown and that she may live 8-10 years. That’s a lot of crickets. While American bullfrogs are voracious eaters, they will only eat moving prey. I don’t think I have that kind of DaVincian curiosity or endurance. Instead, I will wait until I hear the species’ signature jug-o-rum call and then take Frog again out for a walk. I hope this time she has the instincts to avoid predators and the hazards of life in the wild. Successful or not, she will fulfill her role as nature intended.