The two railing planters—rectangle-shaped wire lined with cocoa matting—looked like half smirks. Part of the matting had drooped and part remained where it was supposed to be. I wasn’t sure if I could salvage the matting, but had nothing to lose, so I tried to bolster and adjust. As I propped up the drooping sides I’d rearrange the dirt.
Concentrating on my efforts I caught just a hint of motion near my hand. A small toad rather grumpily gave a half-hop, and then stopped. His beady black eyes glared at me as if to say he was not amused with my meddling. I stared back at him. Or her. How does one tell?
Either way the toad was quite comely. The coloration blended near perfectly with the soil. As I studied the toad I caught another motion to my right. For just the briefest of moments a brown mouse poked his/her head out of the cocoa matting, and then disappeared.
Wait a minute! First of all, I can understand how a mouse could scale the railing and make a home. But the toad? Unless it has super-natural jumping skills, I don’t think so.
How did the toad get there? Why was the toad there? Was he/she a mouse-guest?
Did the mouse think, “I want to go with the toad less traveled?”
Were they a couple? Were they set up on a really bad blind date, but ultimately thought, “What the heck?” (I hear toad’s like to bar hop.) Heavy questions for a droopy flower box and my over-active imagination.
If there turns out to be some freakish moads or touse’s this spring, just remember I toad you so. Their discovery was the best part of my day.