I find a tadpole in a stagnant pool. There are others too. They are pea-sized. My shadow momentarily protects their habitat from the blazing sunlight. They pretend not to see me. Now I see hundreds in the shallow water, but I only take the one. I put him in a fishbowl.
I don't know what tadpoles eat, or if they eat at all. Weeks pass and the small wiggler grows legs, then arms. He stops wiggling and climbs out of the water, his body now almond-sized.
I do know that frogs eat flies, and that frogs need to eat.
There is a fly in the living room right now. I've never seen a frog eat a smashed fly, so I try to catch it alive. I'm unsuccessful. However, a whip from a kitchen towel brings down the fly. I scoop it up and drop it in the fish bowl.
Confirming my earlier suspicion, frogs don't eat smashed flies.
Then the fly revives! It must have been stunned, not dead; not for long. The tiny frog attacks the fly with his tongue in a split-second, then swallows. The frog is satisfied, and I am a satisfied master.
Looming behind my grinning face is the fear of having to regularly provide for him. His meal was the product of my luck and his instinct, and I can control neither.
So, my green friend takes a bike ride with me back to his green tadpole pond. The fishbowl, the bicycle, and I are still alien to this place. Again my shadow covers the entire habitat. I release him to the wild, doubting his survival and hoping I haven't crippled him.