Too Many Toads

A Cautionary Tale

High Street wrote:
"I have finally devoured your excellent research on Diane de Poitiers..."

You're hired, dear. Companion to the Pug (move over, Miss Lyall).

Seriously, though, don't some things demand to be taken in hand and investigated? They do, you know, and that splendid historical period, with Diane acting as spokesperson, simply raised itself upon its hind legs and said to me, "You, there! Knave! You are an insensitive dolt, entrapped like a gnat in the sap of everyday concerns, if you are not willing to abandon all else and come with me this very moment." The problem, of course, was that simultaneously these many other equally fascinating items were hopping up and down, insisting, "But what about me? Have you forgotten? You promised!" What comes to my poor beleaguered mind, upon such occasions, is the dilemma my younger brother once faced in regard to Too Many Toads.

(WARNING: The following Pug digression may be unsuitable for more sensitive or sensible members of the audience.)

Many years ago, when I was enjoying a spectacularly misspent youth, we lived in Dallas, Texas. I must interject here that my family roamed in a peculiarly uprooted manner from state to state - and just witness the result! - but this had its charms at the time, among which was that every year or so I was treated to an entirely new set of circumstances, fixing my youthful attention, for some unaccountable reason, chiefly upon the insects, spiders, reptiles, and amphibians in each new locale. I was charmed by Texas, a young naturalist's paradise. I had, I'm convinced, the largest collection of horned toads any small girl has ever amassed. Texas was not, like Ohio, well endowed in the newt and salamander department (I was acutely aware of this fact, I assure you), but it had the most splendidly HUGE toads, in such amazing quantities, who sat large and content each evening on the smooth coolness of our concrete patio, feasting on the innumerable insects that made every Texas summer evening such a rich and exciting experience. Ah, the resounding SMACK of a June bug hitting one upside the head, the deafening WRRRR WRRRR WRRRR of eighteen thousand cicadas, the continual pricklings of insatiable mosquitoes, the skittering congregations of daddy long legs.... However I quickly learned that only a fool would take a glass of lemonade outside and drink from it without glancing warily down with each sip to assess what new and exciting garnishes might have landed in it... But I digress from my digression - a fine state of affairs!

My youngest brother was a toddler of about one and a half, and I can see him clearly, in the early evening, lurching drunkenly about on the patio, clad only in a cloth diaper (my brother, that is, not the patio). This was long before the days of disposables, you see, though we had air conditioning, and so were civilized by modern standards. Not to cast any blame upon my mother, but his diapers were the droopiest I think I've ever seen. I'm not sure why this was the case, but it was so. "Pat, pat, pat," went his little feet on the concrete, interspersed with the larger PATS his bottom made when he fell or perhaps voluntarily plopped backward, whereupon he resembled an infant Old King Cole, a merry young soul delightedly surveying his patio kingdom. Children of this age are blessedly close to the ground and never seem to injure themselves. It's all part of Nature's plan, no doubt, for were they taller they would do themselves irreparable damage. In his wake, my brother left generous puddles of drool hither and yon, like liquid spoor. And onto this charming scene would come the toads.

Discretely, at first, and just at the margins of the patio, hopped some callow young toads who acted as the vanguard of their kind. The fatter toads then asserted their rank, materializing at the prime positions under the porch light, which was alive with the flicker of insects. One minute there would be no toads, and the next there would be dozens. It is a mystery I hope to solve one day, though not at the cost of enduring another Texas summer.

Looking up from some fascinating pursuit, such as making sure all the toes he had yesterday were still there today, my brother beheld the toads. Crooning with delight and drooling even more profusely, he ratcheted himself upright and plummeted towards the nearest toad, being unexpectedly agile in this pursuit. Before that toad knew what was up, it was firmly in the infant grasp. All toads, of course, immediately pee when they are grabbed, and this seemed a marvelous thing to my brother. A fellow drooler! More crows of astonishment. But what's this? Another toad spotted, my brother would then hurl himself on it, taking this toad in his other hand. This one might perchance emit an abrupt croak - a sound not unlike that a startled toddler might make, in fact - more fellowship, more camaraderie!

No sooner had he grasped the second toad than my brother would see a third only a few paces away and find out what happened when, rather like the crow with the grapes in the fable, he opened one fist to attempt to catch the third. The first escaped. But never mind, he had the third now, in place of the first. However, there would now be another toad, just to his right, so much larger than the ones he already had in his hands... what a dilemma! And here's where this mere toddler displayed the ingenuity that sets Mankind apart from other animals. He would cram one of the toads into his diaper, which was conveniently agape at the waist, thus freeing a hand to seize a new toad. You can see what's coming, I know you can, clever ones (oh presumptive plural!). Back and forth across the patio he pattered, capturing one toad after another, putting the surplus toads into the diaper repository.

Now, this is unwarranted speculation, but perhaps my mother had a soft spot for toads. I would certainly like to think that was at the root of the droopy diaper, and not any maternal inattentiveness on her part. Whatever the genesis of this diaper déshabillé, the fact was that the toads never stayed in their padded prison for more than a few minutes. Soon they fell out from the generous gap between diaper and thigh, hopping off or perhaps being immediately caught again, re-experiencing the entire toad-in-the-hole cycle. I observed, in fact, that the liberated toads seldom made the mad dash for freedom one might assume such an ordeal would encourage them to make. No; toads either have extremely short memories or else the lure of the cool patio simply outweighed any inconvenience they may have experienced at the hands - and unmentionable bits - of my brother.

All my life the image of my brother, never satisfied with the toads he had and unaware of the toads that were escaping, has haunted my memory. The suspicion comes to me, now and again, that I have much in common with him. I seize upon one irresistible diversion, immediately find that another has presented itself, and then scarcely know what to do when I perceive a third.... But I will carry this analogy no further, my friends, for I may be fickle and foolhardy, but I am not without some infinitesimal scrap of modesty.

The loosely clothed

Pug

"Those are my principles. If you don't like them, I have others." - Groucho Marx