I let out a little shriek. I wasn't scared, no, but startled by the big toad blinking slowly next to the laundry room sink.
My dad ran in to ask what was going on. My brother fetched a broom and dustpan and I nudged the toad onto the dustpan.
Dad: Give it to me.
Me: Why, what are you going to do?
Dad: I won't kill it. Come on.
Me: I'm just going to let it go on our field.
Dad: There's an easier way.
He took the dustpan from my hands, leaned back and, as if he were hunting with an ancient sling, flung the toad into our back field. The poor toad, its legs akimbo, flew over our little fence and into the tall grass at least 30m away.
I was flabbergasted. I was pretty sure that the toad wasn't dead, but I wasn't sure whether to laugh at the absurdity of it all or not.
Dasol: You killed it!
Dad: It's not dead.
Dasol: What the heck was that? Poor toad!
Dad: What do you mean, poor toad! I bet it was the first toad ever to fly. Now it can tell all the other toads that it got to fly.
That was it for me. I laughed and laughed. Toad shotputt.
