It seems every time I get into my grass cutting groove, mowing the lawn is a guaranteed 2 hour workout in which I unplug my brain, I mortally injure a toad lurking in the grass. Immediately I am aghast at the blood and guts spread across the path and saddened by the loss of yet another bug eating friend.
Last month I nicked one across the eye. Every time I walked past where I gently placed him in the already gut grass, he just looked up at me with blood dripping across his face with an expression of "Toad Killer!" on his face. Later, I joking told Karl, I must be the "demon mower of the orchard", a pun off of the musical "Demon Barber of Fleet Street" in which one of my friends played clarinet last year.
About a week after the toad incident, we started noticing some funny behavior in Katie. When we took her to the orchard to fetch, she would drop the ball, roll onto her back like trying to get a good scratch, like horses when they cover themselves in dirt. Katie would get up shake a little and return to the same spot again. Finally, I went over to see what was so darn good smelling to her that she wanted it on her fur. Well, apparently scar face toad did not make it. He was dried to a crisp and Katie was enjoying it. For Katie's reward in finding the dead toad, she was awarded a bath outside with the cold hose.
