Some are toads

One uneventful night…no frogs, no skunks, no friends…we encounter a large squat toad hunkered down in the middle of the road artfully lit by the street light. Spencer is oblivious. Sometimes he mistakes leaves for frogs and sometimes he mistakes toads for leaves. To his mind, if it’s not moving, it doesn't warrant his attention. No doubt, the toad is drawn to the bugs being drawn to the street light overhead. It’s probably Toad's dinner hour. I point Toad out to Spencer anyway; after all, a toad is a new experience. “Toad, Spencer, toad!” I goad, hoping the excitement in my voice will egg him on. It does. He sniffs. Backs away. Seems revolted. “This is no ordinary frog,” I imagine him thinking, “What the hell is it? I’m not interested in this one. It doesn’t even jump!”

I pick it up, knowing full well it’ll pee defensively on me, feeling its soft fullness despite its warty skin. Legend says human warts can be cured by toad pee. Or is it that warts are caused by toad pee? I believe neither is the case. I place it gently in the roadside grass where it’ll be safer. Spencer ignores it; after all, it’s no fun.

The next night, same route, same road, there’s the toad…well, what’s left of the toad. He’s now a flattened leather image of his former self, having been mummified by some truck tire and a day spent in hot sun. Spencer sniffs the remains. Does he smell death? He moves on. Well, at least we tried to save poor old Toad.