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| Milliron Farm & Clinic from the Federal Creek bridge 2021 |
Abbott "Pete" Smith D.V.M. June 16, 1938 - February 22, 2010 |
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“Come
now, Mommy!”
Her
brother, Pat, was pursuing a toad across the yard. She was sure he would get
warts on his hands. I was sure the toad would get injured either by the boy or
the two dogs who had joined in the chase.
I
scooped up the toad. It soon settled, cupped in my hands. We all lay down
on the fresh grass; the children’s faces were alive with eagerness to see the
toad closeup. I put my hands on the ground and then stroked the toad’s rough
back. He ducked his head, blinking his eyes, but remained calm. Gingerly,
Jessica stroked the toad as I explained away the “wart story” she had heard
from a child on the school bus.
Pat
was eager to hold the toad in his over-zealous, four year old hands. He
demanded “his toad” immediately. I watched fascinated, as the toad hopped
casually from my hands across a few inches of grass and a tree root onto Pat’s
hand, pressed palm up in the grass. His face lit up with joy. He ventured
cautiously to stroke the toad. He held his breath and began to caress it. He
talked to it quietly.
Jessica
and I watched from outside his world. Then, in the hush of the warm May
morning, the toad began to chirp. “Listen, Mommy, he’s singing us a song.”
Pat’s round brown eyes shone. I was transfixed. The moments stood still until
the toad hopped slowly from Pat’s hand. Pat explained, “He’s got to go home
now.” He hopped into a drain tile and out of sight. This was the first of many
gentle meetings which highlighted our summer with “Pat’s toad.” I wish we could
execute a “piaffe” and have this marvelous age of four just “trot in place.”
But, as it already rushes onto five, the memory of the morning the toad sang
remains.
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