One thing I’ll say about living in the country is that there are endless opportunities to engage with wildlife, for better or worse. I’ve had several encounters with frogs in my time in the beautiful Somerset region, mostly latrine related. This story doesn’t involve a vibrant green toilet frog, but its reviled cousin – the cane toad. This story does begin with a toilet, but on this occasion the toad wasn’t actually in lurking in the bowl of the staff toilet at school, it was on my exit from the loo that I saw it …
A dirty big brown cane toad is sitting defiantly in the middle of the concrete path about a metre from me. It’s too early for this – classes are just about to start for the day and I sure don’t need this. I do a double take but I manage not to squeal, thankfully, because three Year 5 girls are approaching.
‘One of the boys just kicked that,’ one girl says, eyeing the toad and giving it a wide berth.
And that was just what I needed to snap me out of my rising hysteria. I don’t like toads, but I certainly do not condone animal cruelty. So now, I’m on a mission. I can hear Year 3 boys in the toilets which means they will be coming past me – and the toad – in a minute. I suspect one of them is the alleged “kicker” and I intend giving them a piece of my mind before they go to class.
Inevitably they saunter past and I rip into my spiel about how all living creatures deserve respect and that if I hear about them kicking animals again, there will be serious consequences. They nod, and although they don’t look as contrite as I think they should, I let them pass because there is another group approaching and I need to protect this stupid toad – that I can still see hasn’t moved – from further potential harm.
Once the toilet block is clear, I head for the assembly area. One of the other teachers studies my face.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
I point over my shoulder. ‘See that brown lump on the concrete outside the staff toilet?’
‘It’s not a turd, is it?’ she asks, her face rapidly losing colour.
‘Close,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Toad, not turd.’
She sighs. ‘That’s a relief.’
‘Says the person who didn’t just have to deal with it,’ I mutter.
‘Let’s hope it’s gone by lunchtime,’ she adds.
Yep, because I’m on duty and I don’t want to spend the whole time playing bodyguard to an amphibian who seems to lack any self-preservation skills. I’m conflicted. I don’t condone animal cruelty but I’m a realist – survival of the fittest is a thing. If this toad isn’t going to take any responsibility for its situation, how much should I interfere with nature?
I decide to set my dilemma aside and focus on what I get paid to do – teach children. After a two-hour Maths session, the bell finally rings and I get my scheduled toilet break. I brace myself for what I might find on my way there. A cursory look down the path reveals it to be toad-free and I let out a huge sigh of relief.
But just as I approach the toilet, I glimpse a brown lump at the edge of the path. It’s the toad, not looking so defiant now though. It’s lying on its back. Not usual toad behaviour as far as I’m aware. Closer inspection reveals that it is not only dead, but mummified. Crispy. This fella has been dead for some time.
I look around to make sure no one is watching, then grab a stick and push the dead toad under a bush so no one can see it. I need to hide the evidence. If the other teachers find out how zealously I’ve been defending the rights of a dead toad … I’ll never hear the end of it!