All families have pet-related tales (tails?) I suppose, and my tribe is no different.

Years ago, in our family’s pre-doggie years, we had turtles, gerbils, and frogs. The turtles started out as cute little critters but as they grew, they’d swim all night and bash into the sides of their tank, keeping Dan awake. The turtles were voted off the island and found a far better life in a friend’s home.

The gerbil, Ginger, had a huge orange plastic “environment” with tubes, wheels and other activity centers. Ginger would channel his inner Steve McQueen and manage to escape when it was time to clean its home.

One day, Ginger made a daring break for it and my wife reached out to grab it. By the tail. Guess what?

Its tail came out, like the pin in a grenade. But Ginger, sans tail, soldiered on until, one fateful day, the little rat finally died. The three of us packed the disgusting little rodent into a shoebox and took it across the street to the Plaza Street berm. Dan tossed it over the fence and said, with great reverence, “Au revoir!”

Next came the frog. It was a tiny thing in a tiny terrarium and Dan named it, yes, Little Frog.

Little Frog was quiet, didn’t stink much, and was somewhat amusing. Dan enjoyed taking him out of his “environment” and showing it to his friends. But Little Frog, like Ginger, had wanderlust. One day, he escaped. LF hippity-hopped into the kitchen and, before we could corral the little vonce, slipped behind the stove.

We tried coaxing him out with food. We tried talking sense to him. We tried pulling the stove away from the wall so the little bastard could see daylight and come out.

But no. Little Frog spit the bit and made it to some sort of ill-conceived freedom. Every time we made dinner and lit the stove, we winced. Little Frog, we were sure, was incinerated. Again. And again. And again.

Summer came and we left for a short vacation. Several days later we returned. Laughing, we tramped up the stairs to our top floor, walk-up aerie. I fumbled with the keys, turned the lock, opened the door — and my jaw dropped.

“Oh no!” I gulped. There, mere inches from the door, was a very stiff, very dead, Little Frog. It lay on his back, face contorted in froggy agony, one arm outstretched, as if reaching for the crack in the door jam and a wider world of freedoms yet unknown.

“He was so brave,” Dan said.

“He was alive all that time,” my wife said.

“Get the broom,” I said.

We were all humbled by the heroism of Little Frog. He never gave up. He left it all out on the field (ok, the foyer).

I was reminded again of Steve McQueen.

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The little guy almost made it. The little guy had such heart. And yet, one must ponder: what the hell was he eating back there all that time?

I picked him up by his tiny paw and, as with many small family pets that die, gave him a dignified burial at sea. Godspeed Little Frog, we hardly knew ye.

And, to this day, whenever I’m down, I think of Little Frog’s tenacity in the face of adversity. He never gave up! Pa’lante! Onward! Allez!

And, as well, I am reminded of this fact of life: the back of the stove is no place to hide.