I must move carefully in the garden. There are friends underfoot everywhere.
One of my most vivid memories as a young child is the murdering of a toad found in the sandbox at Mrs. Blythe’s nursery school. An older boy found the toad, tortured it and smashed it with a rock. He should have been sent straight to Jackson’s Training School or jail.
My sister and I took toad deaths very seriously. We had a graveyard in the woods where we buried the smashed flat, dried toads we found in the road. We would hold solemn funerals for the deceased. We also gave guided tours of our facilities to the neighbors, who I am sure were thoroughly amused.
So with this bit of childhood baggage, I fear the accidental death of one of my amphibious friends.
They are in every hole and hopping across every walkway.
When I burned weeds with my torch last night, I was on the lookout so as not to bar-b-que a little neighbor.
It’s hard to walk and work without worry when you have little friends underfoot.