When I was nine, I wanted a microscope. I mean, I really really wanted a microscope. And for Christmas, I got one! The kit came with loads of strange chemicals (that would not be included with any child’s chemistry set today), a bunsen burner, one glass jar containing one frog (in formaldehyde), and a dissection kit (which included three or four very sharp knives of differing shapes and sizes). Because I was still vacillating between brain surgery and animation as career choices, the frog excited me! I felt I might even give it a try at some point… in the future.
But for the time being, the microscope was my passion. I looked at everything and anything under the powerful eye of that magical microscopic eye! In my journal, I drew whatever I examined.
I loved my little microscope Journal. I felt like a real scientist! It was all so cool.
One lazy day, about six months after I had been given the microscope kit, I felt the itch to dissect an animal—how hard could it be?
I decided that the backyard was the correct place for this experiment. The noon day Hawaiian sun provided ample light for the proceedure. Four pins came with the kit. I can’t recall to what surface I pinned the frog. I choose a blade. It was curved and razor sharp. So far, the procedure was going well. I was pleased.
The first incision was light, from top to bottom.
Do not read on if you have an uneasy stomach.
I was astonished to discovered an outer layer of skin, like green cellophane (or so I remember). I peeled it back a little and I was suddenly stuck with the impulse to abandon the entire process. But I must not stop. How could ever be a brain surgeon if I couldn’t even bring myself to dissect one tiny little frog!
Following the same line I had just cut, I quickly pushed downward, through the frog’s “inner skin”, from throat to belly (and forgive me for not knowing the anatomical frog-names of these frog-parts).
To this day, I can still see everything inside that fucking frog. It was a nightmare. A terror to my nine year old eyes. I won’t describe it. I will say… the worst part: its abdomen was filled with hundreds of eggs. I gazed. Frozen. All those little preserved eggs. Finally I forced myself to poke at its intestines.
Then I panicked. Logic fled. I needed to hide the evidence. It never occurred to me to put this poor dead frog into our trash can. Instead, in my terror, I picked up the frog and I threw it over the fence into our neighbor’s yard.
Afterwards, there was a moment of “Wait, why did I just do that?” But, of course, it was too late. There was no way in hell that I was going to climb over the fence and retrieve that grotesque mess I made. Though after that time, I wondered, did our neighbors find it? If so, I can only imagine what they thought.
I continued using my microscope. I continued keeping my notebook, but I was done with dissection. And from that point on, I understood that I was never going to make it as a brain surgeon.