“I don't understand. I am a curmudgeonly frog. I don't want to understand. Say it again and I will ignore you.”
“Do - you - eat - flies?”  
“I eat.” 
“Well. Your flies are going to eat you. Your pond will be gone. Your lily pads will dry up in the sun. Rain will cease to fall down your throat. Your skin will crack in the heat. Only flies will be left to feast on your dead carcass."   
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You are going to see it soon.”
“Then I’ll believe it soon.”

The official from the animal education committee walked away. The conversation had been frustrating, but not unusual. It was hard to inform frogs of an incoming disaster. But the hard truth was: frogs didn't make the evacuation list. The official was sad, of course, there would be no frogs to welcome the Martian sunrises. No open windows through which the soft frog song would mingle, intertwining with the edge of sleep. But saying goodbye was his job, and jobs get old.

The official was born in 2030. His first memories were touched with the floral scents of spring, autumn rain storms, and even once when he was very young, he remembered the world going white. But now the scorching hard-ground-summers lasted till January and started again in February. There were no spring flowers and no fall storms to wash away the dust. The frogs still sang, but it was with parched stubborn throats in muddy ponds that were nearly gone.

The curmudgeonly frog was almost dead, croaking until he could croak no more.