The nursery dropped four cubic yards of mulch in my driveway a couple of weeks ago.
"That's a lot of mulch," my neighbor remarked. "Are you planning to move all of that by yourself?"
Well, yes. Mulch isn't very heavy. Moving and spreading it is not beyond my abilities, so I began moving my mountain, one wheel barrow load at a time.
A pitch fork works best for shoveling up mulch. I noticed that something remained stuck to the pitchfork after heaving a scoop into my barrow. Oh, my God! A rather large toad had burrowed into the cool, damp mulch, and I had impaled the poor guy. I stabbed him through his hind leg, and there he was, dangling from my instrument of torture.
With my gloved hand, I carefully slid him off his skewer and placed him on the driveway.
"Oh, I'm sorry Toadie," I apologized. How badly was he injured? Would the wound be fatal? Toads are good. They eat bugs. I was filled with remorse. The toad sat on the stone driveway breathing heavily and glaring at me with one eye.
There wasn't any fluid leaking from the leg, and then he hopped. Good, no broken bones, maybe no serious muscle damage. Should the wound be cleaned? I filled a watering can with water and began showering the toad. He bounced away at lightening speed.
I have seen turtles with scarred shells, one-eyed cats, and three legged dogs. I supposed the toad would heal and live to eat bugs for another season or two. I felt really awful about what I had done, though. Unless that old toad decides to hold me accountable for his punctured hind leg. If that happens, then my position is going to be that he shouldn't have been sleeping in my mulch pile in the first place.
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