When it rains so much that the frogs have had enough, it's wet.
I found young Mr. Norbert, here, on my porch, jamming himself into a corner of my door frame, presumably to escape the weather. I relocated him to the porch railing next to the boxwood in the hope that he could find a less squish-prone place to hole up.
Onward, Norbert! Your twenty-thousand wives and children in the bog are fretting over you! Skeedattle!
This is what my bog frog chorus sounds like on a sunny day. Multiply it by ten or twenty and you've got an idea of what a rainy night sounds like here!
In addition to Norbert and his kind seeking refuge on my porch and elsewhere, I've noticed a disturbing spike in the number of displaced, dehydrated newts in my basement. How are you getting in there little dudes? Does the appeal of the Man Cave cross lines of both phylum and culture, luring you in with it's eau de homebrew and fish bait? I love you little amphibians, but it has been well established that critters in my care must be tolerant of some level of incompetence on my part, and you, my friends are just too darn fragile.
So scamper on! Chill on the porch or hide out in the basement if you must, just don't forget to let yourself back out when you're done. And don't hide in my boots! That scenario doesn't end well for either of us.