An amphibian assault: Cannibalistic froggy invader has Floridians on defensive

POINCIANA, Fla. — Long established in South Florida, the Cuban tree frog has launched a slow invasion on Central Florida, leaving the remains of native tree frogs in its wake and breeding rapidly in growing colonies.

On its long leap northward, the Caribbean native has gained renown for eating a hole in the area's fragile ecosystem and thriving amid suburban sprawl as it bulldozes over the state's natural habitats.

Native tree frogs can do little to stop the fat frog, said Walter Meshaka Jr., a Pennsylvania scientist who wrote a book tracing the natural history of the intruder. Four times larger than native species, the Cuban tree frog is the large-chain bookstore of amphibians, he said. It comes to town and devours the local, smaller competition. Soon, there's no one else left but the invader.

"And there it sits," Meshaka said. "Like a giant Goliath."

The Cuban tree frog is an animal with simple tastes. Its body alone can grow as large as 5 or 6 inches wide. Females can lay up to 10,000 eggs in a single clutch — roughly 10 times more than smaller natives such as the green tree frog or squirrel tree frog. And unlike them, it can grow in birdbaths and live in towns.

It is willing to eat other Cuban tree frogs as well as the competition — as Laura Mancine discovered. For 10 years in once-rural Poinciana, the 44-year-old public-relations specialist enjoyed the song of tiny green frogs that leaped onto the roof of her house.

Then a Cuban tree frog appeared in her toilet. Unaware it was a pest, Mancine paroled it to her yard. In a matter of months, the little green frogs vanished. The Cuban tree frog got fatter. A smaller one joined it.

A grandparent sent her son Matthew Segal, 7, an article on the Cuban tree frog, and Mancine knew it was her duty to kill. She caught two near the porch light in a box. The next day, she gathered up the courage to freeze them.

"I've never killed anything but red ants and mosquitoes," Mancine said.

The Cuban tree frog arrived accidentally in the 1940s and commuted northward by attaching its sticky toe pads to northbound trucks. Frogs hid between the slats of orchid baskets, crawled onto ornamental shrubs and attached themselves to the undercarriages of Winnebagos.

Over 15 years, the hungry amphibians have slowly been transformed from Orlando, Fla.-area tourists into permanent residents. Their reach extends even farther north, too. In the past year, Cuban tree frogs have been sighted as far north as Duval County, Fla., though it's not clear they will outlast the warm weather, said Steve Johnson, a research wildlife biologist with the U.S. Geological Survey in Gainesville who tracks sightings of the frog.

"They make a call that sounds like running a wet finger across a balloon," said Johnson, who has the duty of "removing" tree frogs from his in-laws' Kissimmee home. By "removing," he means catching them in plastic baggies and freezing them for 24 to 48 hours.

The measure may sound drastic, he admitted, but the state's natural heritage is disappearing. With its warm climate and the location of Miami, a huge port of entry for the pet trade and horticulture, Florida has a special problem with invasive species.

Time and again, species from elsewhere enter the area, threatening to throw the state's unusual ecosystem out of balance. Exotic brown lizards have eaten native green lizards. Water hyacinths from Brazil clog local waterways.

Some, like the Cuban tree frog, manage to thrive through dumb luck. They just happen to be more suited to the state's runaway sprawl. The amphibians can establish colonies much farther north than previously because they can live in warm crevices near houses. They lay eggs that develop in puddles that remain after the ponds and fish have been paved over for concrete.

"These exotics in general are a reflection of the things that we do," Meshaka, senior curator for the State Museum of Pennsylvania, said glumly. "It's just a reflection of human-mediated eco-collapse."

Which all makes the Cuban tree frog a fascinating survivor. Meshaka remembers writing his dissertation on the tree frogs a decade ago in Kendall, in the house where he grew up.

Hurricane Andrew roared over South Florida. The woods were flattened. Entire habitats were gone.

But the Cuban tree frogs remained.

In fact, they liked the hurricane. Small Cuban tree frogs hid in crevices, safe from the fierce winds. In its wake, they found giant puddles where they could lay their young. They thrived.

"Isn't that amazing?" Meshaka said.