Toads and frogs horrify my husband–a sad fact for bufophile like me.
The first toad-bringing rain in our marriage shocked us both. Rain fell by the warm cupful as I dashed whooping barefoot down our street, collecting toads in a Rubbermaid box. Not only would my husband not accompany me on my next trip, but he forbade me to bring the toad-box into our apartment. My plan to set them free in the bathtub and squeal at them was quashed.
Toad-collecting manias are such a joyous part of my life; I could not imagine that the man I loved could not share my delight. He could not believe I was so crazy for amphibians. He asked me why later that night.
I never really questioned my fascination. I adore them because they are the closest thing to dinosaurs that I could catch with my bare hands. The fact that toads emerge when it rains (whooo! rain!) is a bonus. I love their bumpy, gnarly texture and placid slitted eyes. The hop-plop of a plump toad fries my little brain circuits in the oil of sweet delight. I never understood how girls could squee over hamsters. Unsavory, smelly, foul mammals. Blech. But toads! TOADS!
Joy-bliss-love! The most vigorous coke-snorting Hollywood starlet could never touch my toad-touching high. Poor souls, attending empty parties with meaningless music, fashion, and talk. All they need is a bathtub of toads.
Anyway, sixteen years of marriage has not made my husband less revolted by frogs and toads. He still won’t let me fill the tub with their squirmy cuteness, but he does share toad related media when he comes across it.
His favorite guitar tutor shared a clip with an adorable little frog in it, and so now I share with you. Only with great restraint, do I not share the toad video extravaganza I watched on YouTube last night–but a play list might be coming soon!