When I first lined up my herb-filled planters on the front porch I noticed that neighborhood cats came around to sniff. Because I was afraid that they might do more than that, might dig up my tiny seedlings, or worse, mistake the soft soil for a bathroom, I bought a toad. A plastic toad that croaks whenever something moves past it. I saw it at the local nursery, circled the display several times, testing the “trial toad” and decided that it was a great idea. It would warn cats “Don’t enter my porch. Croak, croak, croak! Run!!!
In my haste to get the toad situated I tossed the box. Who needs instructions for a croaking toad? Just insert two AA batteries and turn on. Now I realize that the box might have told me what the toad pays attention to. I had to ask myself that question when I walked past him one evening after dark. Toad silence.
Are the neighborhood cats laughing at me? The black and white one, sitting on the window sill across the street, does he say to himself, “Stupid, stupid, stupid woman!”
The one lapping water from the ditch? He seems bored. “If you don’t want us on your porch, just say so. Don’t buy a twenty dollar dummy who can’t see at night when I am out hunting.”
The scrawny gray one that lives on the hill? A raccoon injured his hind leg last year; I’m sure he doesn’t worry about croaking plastic toads when he is looking for that neighborly saucer of cat chow. What he sees is the renovated bathroom facility, complete with oregano deodorizer. In the past I allowed him to rest on my doormat; he must think I have been selected to be this year’s neighborhood meanie. I wish he had met my cat Abbey before she went to cat heaven; Abbey would have told him that I am really a nice person as long as you leave my garden alone.
But back to the toad. Sometimes he croaks when a car drives by. He gets real excited when the UPS driver stands on the steps with a parcel in his hands. He becomes irritable when I water the herbs and a stray sprinkle wets his lips. And just now, as I sit at my desk, watching the sun design shadows of wisteria leaves on the porch, I hear the familiar croaking. A tiny wind makes the leaves move ever so lightly, and with it shadow leaves dance across the toad. Camera in hand I confront him, well not quite confront him, that would be a face-to-face meeting and definitely result in croaking. I sneak up on him from the side, observe him while the sunlight shifts across his back. Nothing happens. Might as well take a picture of him now, I think, before the sun leaves the porch. I turn on the flash as fill-in where the shadows are too deep.
“Croak, croak, croak!!
“Did I blind you with the flash?”
I wave my foot in front of his eyes.
“Croak, croak, croak!
Buckston Sr., my handsome porch gnome, winks at me.
“Go back inside,” he says, “you’ll never know what we see. Each one of us has a different view, a different past, a different outlook. Cats see with cat eyes. Plastic toads see with plastic toad eyes.”
Or tiny built in sensors, I am tempted to correct him, but I don’t. I’ve learned to listen to most of what surrounds me.
“And your Bears ….. have you any idea what they will see when they arrive at their destinations? Go back inside, and knit another one. Tell him what you see; maybe he’ll remember it on his way to Africa.”
What Bear Number 114 sees
In April I bought a potted sunflower for my little garden helper Marisol.
But when I returned home the sunflower had closed up.
By July I had to admit that the sunflower was DEAD
And so, this morning, Bear Number 115, Tyana J Littlestring,
