A frog sits in mud and considers it a launchpad. That's the whole personality. Legs built like coiled springs, throat built like a subwoofer, eyes on top of the head so it can watch the world while mostly submerged, plotting. Some frogs can leap fifty times their own body length. Nobody asked them to. They just wanted to see if they could.

In Japan there's a word, kaeru, that means both "frog" and "to return" — so travelers carried little frog charms for safe passage home, and soldiers kept them in their pockets like a promise. That's a lot of responsibility for something that also eats flies off its own eyeballs. The frog does not see the contradiction. The frog does not see contradictions in general. It just keeps croaking, all night, at a volume that suggests the pond requires it.

This is an animal that goes from egg to gilled swimmer to full-lunged land creature without ever holding a meeting about it. Total transformation, zero drama. It just shows up different one day, ribbiting like it planned the whole thing.

Loud, wet, and going places. Put it on a shirt.