The Ballad of Zombie Frog

A couple of years ago, my sister got me one of those plexiglass frogitariums they sell at Learning Express as a Hanukkah present. Inside the frogitarium, of course, were a couple of frogs - African dwarf frogs, to be exact. It was them, one plant, some purple rocks, one lump of green glass, and some water. The frogs, which were completely indistinguishable from one another, I named "Satchel" and "Nancy", as a nod to the late Buck O'Neill's recounting of the way he acquired the nickname "Nancy" from Satchel Paige. (If you haven't seen that, stop reading this and listen.)
Satchel and Nancy, and their frogatarium, moved into my office at work, where they made cheerful, low-maintenance mascots. I fed 'em twice a week, occasionally changed their water, and had a steady parade of folks who wandered by to see them, or who offered to feed them while I was on the road.
Eventually, I started going out on the road a lot, so much so that I felt bad asking people to continuously care for the poor little buggers. So before starting out on one three week excursion, I brought them home, put them in my office (on a high, hopefully cat-proof) bookshelf, and got Melinda to agree to feed them on a regular basis. Then I went out of town. Then I came home again. Then I went out of town again. Then I came home. You get the idea.
Fast forward six or so months. I go on the road again, this time for three weeks in Toronto. About a week and a half in, Melinda calls me. "I'm sorry, honey," she says. "The frogs are dead."
Which, to be honest, isn't a surprise. The African dwarf frog is a stubborn little bastard, but the literature that came with my frogatarium suggested that they had a life expectancy of about a year. Satchel and Nancy had beaten that by over 50%. As far as captive frogs in plexiglass boxes went, they'd had a good run. They'd been fed, been given fresh water, and at no point had they tried to eat one another, which is a common problem when dealing with these things.
"I'm sorry too," I told her. "Tell you what - they're in what's pretty much a sealed container. Don't worry about cleaning them out. I'll take care of them when I get home." After all, it's one thing to ask your wife to feed your African dwarf frogs, quite another to ask her to dispose of their post-frogular cadavers. And so we agreed that I would take care of the two ex-frogs when I got home.
I got home. I got busy. I dealt with things. And a few days later, Melinda said, "Have you taken care of the frogs yet?"
"I was just about to," I told her, and went to take care of the frogs. Near as I could tell, they'd been dead for about three weeks, and I was prepared for something pretty damn nasty when I opened up the frogitarium. I was not disappointed. The smell was...impressive. "Goodbye, little guys," I said, and went to pour them into the toilet, where all good aquatic pet funerals happen.
And one of them - I have no idea if it was Satchel or Nancy - moved. Swam around a bit. Demonstrated that he was emphatically not dead. The other one, yeah. If Monty Python had done the Dead Frog Sketch, he would have had a starring role. 
I immediately put the frogatarium down and got some fresh water for the survivor. I rescued him, and he swam around unconcernedly as I dumped out his roomate and the rather funktacular water they'd been swimming in. And then I carefully re-hydrated his home and put him back. He settled to the bottom, sat there for a minute, and then started swimming, the master of his domain.
He is now well over two years old, still in fine fettle. Tomorrow, I will change his water, as is his due. And he is no longer known as Satchel, or Nancy. He is Zombie Frog, and he is, apparently, eternal.