Toadalee

Never drink with a toad. You might think that doesn't bear mentioning, but you'd be wrong. And I'm not talking about some prince you found at the bar before closing time, who turned out to be a toad in the morning. No. I want to be absolutely clear. Never, not even casually, drink with an actual toad.

I broke this unwritten rule two months ago and now my life is ruined. I was forced out of my home and onto the streets (well not actually, I'm couch surfing at the moment) but bear with me for dramatic effect. I lost my job, and I lost my hair. All because I drank with a toad.

It happened this way. It was an almost warm day, 73 degrees, which now passes for summer in the Pacific Northwest, and I was out in the yard of my rental house, happily weeding and listening to tunes on my MP3 player, when I happened upon a toad. It was huge, about as big as an NBA players fist, but docile. I've always had a healthy respect for toads because they eat bugs---bugs that would otherwise eat my plants--so frankly, I considered all toads to be friendly. And she was friendly. (No, I don't know if it was actually a "she", I merely assigned her a gender for convenience, my convenience, and I named her Toadalee.. Leave me alone, I'm fond of puns.)

Where ever I moved in the garden, Toadalee, hopoed along side. Totally silent, but vigilant. When she wasn't watching me, she was searching the ground for bugs, or deep in thought and staring aimlessly into space. In those hours that we spent together, we developed a kinship, Toadalee and I. And once, I promise, I heard her laugh. I think it was a laugh--that's what it sounded like to me. I was singing along to Jeremiah was a Bullfrog--and Toadalee let out a single chuckle then rolled on her back and kicked up her legs. I'd didn't have my phone, so there is no YouTube footage of this. Perhaps if there was, I wouldn't be in the fix I'm in today. Toadalee laughed at Jeremiah and I laughed at Toadalee--the sun shone on my face, and for the first time in months and months as in a state of perfect joy. She was the friend that I didn't know I needed--and in that moment I thought we would spend many years together, working in the yard, listening to tunes, laughing at the absurdities of life.

So when I went into the house to make a pitcher of Margaritas and find my book, (I'm re-reading Stephen King's, Carrie), I felt sad and rude--why was I leaving Toadalee alone outside after the amazing afternoon we'd spent together, so I took the pitched and glasses out to the patio and settled into my favorite chair to read and drink. I believe that Toadalee felt snubbed, and rightfully so, because for the longest time I didn't see her. Perhaps she'd retreated into the solace of her own home and was making the toady equivalent of Margaritas at this very moment and reciting the day's misadventures to her husband or boyfriend.

It was hard to concentrate, her absense cut through me like a knife. I kept looking up from the page, my eyes scanning the patio and the yard. I was on my third Margarita when she appeared in the middle of the patio, as though she popped in through a veil of the alternative universe. One moment the patio floor was empty and the next moment she was there, huge and formidable--larger than the afternoon, but that could just be the Margaritas talking and she wasn't alone--she had brought a squad of lesser toads with her. They crouched behind her on the toady back legs and stared at me, as though with enough concentration, they could cause me to levitate. It was starting to get creepy and I didn't want that, so I poured a half of a margarita into the empty glass and set it on its side on the patio, the Margarita began to flow out onto the patio floor. Toadalee didn't budge, but stared at me, her bug eyes steeled with some intent I couldn't determine.

One of the lesser toads, took the first drink--he had a wee laugh--so small, it was almost undetectable, then another followed and another. Soon they were all laughing, chirping almost, like birds on a spring morning. Toadalee continued to stare, so I rose wobbly and went to the kitchen and got a ramekin and filled it with a margarita and set it directly in front of her. Her eyes soften, she drank. We all sang Jeremiah was a Bull Frog--as loud as we could. Soon the patio was teeming with toads, more toads than I had seen in a lifetime--enough toads to populate and Alfred Hitchcock movie. I made another pitcher of margaritas and we all drank.

The toads took over the yard, not a single square inch was left toadless. The earth undulated with their movement. There we casualties. Unavoidable. I stepped on a few on my way into the house. The feel of their tiny bodies under my feet, the squish--I screamed. I couldn't help it. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

The neighbors called the police. No bail money, no rent money, no job. My hair is falling out in clumps. I’m warning you, Never Drink With A Toad!!!