Monday, October 13, 2008
My son came home late last night from a birthday party. One minute he was jumping up and down with glee (a nerf gun in his goody-bag), the next weeping like I haven't heard in years: I left the cage door open; the toads got out!
Oh, cripes is right.
Sooo, what do you do at 9:15 on a Sunday night in a room that's filled with all order of crappola said toads could be hiding under? I was so concerned I'd squish one while in the process of searching that I bailed out. I wasn't very comforting either, which struck me as a little strange. Suddenly I was reprimanding myself (almost aloud, but I restrained myself) for thinking an 8-year-old could take care of a pet that lives to hop. My husband started telling him things like They'll be our wild toads; we'll put out food for them now and then . . . and We had a hamster that got away when I was a kid--we used to catch glimpses of him now and then . . . Hampy the hamster. Meanwhile, I was trying to make sense of my crossness. I mean, he's only 8. They're just a couple of toads. But I couldn't help feeling responsible, sorry, lame, like a bad person for killing those animals that traveled so far to that cage. And now what? Would you spend hours searching for what might well be a couple of dried up toads? But my guilt is growing.