‘Joooooooo, dogs are trying to eat a toad’.
Which when said in a certain way means get out of bed and deal with it. With great immediacy.
I hobble outside, as one does when forced out of bed and haven’t yet been able to ease into your Plantar fasciitis1 and expertly herd the canines back inside using my stern voice.
‘Hey! Leave it! (a phrase at the top of every dog owners lexicon)
[1] I don’t actually have Plantar fasciitis. I’m just stiff. And ungainly.
The toad is looking a little messed up I decide… but maybe it’ll survive. I get down on my haunches to pick it up with the intention of putting him up on the hill somewhere under a bush away from all manner of creatures where it can manifest recovery.
Only when I pick it up I pull the snake out of the wall that was trying to pull its breakfast into its lair. (bit of a square peg kinda situation)
Damn! Did I get a fright.
It a ‘relatively’ harmless Red-lipped herald. One that I’ve encountered before. But all my snake encounters seem to be when I’m half-asleep, barefoot and wearing only my boxers. Which is a state of being that doesn’t inspire confidence in my ability to deal with the unexpected.
I record the toads demise. As one does these days (and not only with amphibians).
Only it manages to escape and hops away… somewhat drunkenly. But I like to think that it made it. And now has some cool scars to show the grand kids.
The snake, hangry, does a little mock charge thing. Which… solicits a higher pitched noise than I should be admitting to and then slithers back into its hole.
I go put on some pants.
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Go Darke 