I am a killer.
Not on purpose. But when I’ve got my huge mower going and those little tiny frogs – or toads – are hopping around the yard, it’s hard to miss them.
All over our property are tiny little frogs. Or maybe they are toads. I don’t really know how to tell the difference. Some of them are green and some are brown. Someone told me once that frogs are green and toads are brown but I don’t know if that’s true. Another person told me that frogs are smooth and toads are bumpy but I don’t generally pick them up to feel them, especially after she elaborated that toads will pee on you.
Anyway, when they hear that mower coming, they try to hop out of the way. But they don’t always choose the right direction, and they don’t always move quickly enough. I want to tell them to just hunker down as low as they can in the grass and they’ll probably be all right. I can’t tell them, though; they’d never understand. So I’m sure I’ve killed some of them. It isn’t on purpose! It’s not in cold blood! (Even though I think they are cold-blooded creatures.) It’s incidental to the mowing. It isn’t murder. Perhaps manslaughter. Except not a man. Frogslaughter.