Playmates
Last night David came up with the empty laundry baskets, the laundry having been safely deposited in the washer, and invited me down to “see some cute happy animals.” So, okay, I’m going to resist cute happy animals?
I don’t know that the three toad-frogs sitting in the window-well were exactly unhappy—after all, plenty of bugs fly down in there—but David thought they were, so he scooped them out one by one and deposited them safely in the grass. One, smarter than his fellows, made haste to crawl under a bush. One hopped onto the front stoop, possibly not his wisest move with two big lumbering humans about.
The third hopped right back into the window-well. David patiently rescued him again, whereat he sat motionless in David’s hand, having decided he’d found his prince, or something. David coaxed him off; he trudged sulkily away.
Just a few minutes ago, David said “I think I’m going out to see if any more toads need rescuing.” That’s my prince, that is. The toads can be his playmates, but he’s still mine.