Toad Life
I sat upon my toadstool, breaking small parts off of it and licking them. The directions said to lick toads, but I could not find any. The toadschool was the closest I could find. It had tons of tadpoles. I didn’t want to lick them. I feared inhaling them and taking them on a tour of my lungs. #1 Catch a toad. #2 Lick it. I stuck somewhere before #1 and didn’t have a clue how to get there.
I read somewhere about toad jigging, where you take a pointed stick and use it to spear toadselves, or was that frogs. If I caught one, would I be able to tell a toad from a frog? And I don’t want to kill it. I’m pretty sure a harpoon through the middle will kill your average toad. I don’t want a tussle with an extraordinary toady. So toadskills I lack.
“Burrrup!”
That had to be a toad. Frogs made smaller, higher sounds.
“Burrrup!”
I turned to the noise and it was a toadpaca. Big, fuzzy, pack animal standing right in the water beside me making toad noises.
“Burrup!”