It's hobgoblin season. Did you know that? It happens to coincide with fig season. When the hobgoblins hatch they feast on figs until they bloat, become immobile and cannot escape the sun. Then they die. It's an extremely short life.
Arrow found one last week and at first glance I mistook it for chicken manure because hobgoblins roughly resemble chicken manure. Upon closer inspection I thought it was a frog, then perhaps a lizard. I'm pretty sure it's a hobgoblin though with its dark leathery carcass, its distinctive curled toes and sinewy limbs. Their natural habitat is nightmares so its rare to see one "in the flesh" so to speak. A deep lust for figs is key to their survival; the ostiole is penetrated, the flesh devoured in a desperate attempt to simultaneously claim and draw all that is sweet from life.
A day later I found the corpse of a lizard, dessicated in the gravel. It's brittle tail still held that graceful curve. Its delicate ribs no more than a hair's width.
And yet a third carcass was found, this one gifted to me by Beagle. Her maw gently wrapped around the thing. She shuffled toward me, head down, tail slightly wagging and dropped it in my open palm. She knew I was collecting these remnants and turned to find another in her desire to please me; in her desire for approval and love. I love her with or without a dried frog, with or without the eggs that she finds hidden but she has her doubts and is compelled to prove herself over and over again.
I've never come across so many little dried leathery things. I don't know what's happening other than the rain from last month. it must have been the perfect condition for hatching, unfortunately the heat followed and killed all that the rain brought including my garden. The tomatoes are gone, the eggplant, the nasturtium and peppers. It's all gone. It's time for decay, for rest before we begin again in the fall.