Squish

I stepped on a frog. No, not like that. I mean literally, I stepped on a frog. A toad, actually.

I had opened my garage door and walked outside in the dark, and I felt a spray of something wet and unpleasant splash my knee like someone had spit on me. I actually looked around to see who would have done such a thing. But what happened was, I stepped on a toad. He was unluckily sitting on my driveway, right where I placed my size-9 shoe, and when my giant black Born sandal smashed his tiny warty frame, his bodily fluids shot out all over my pants, and his internal organs shot out his back end.

Daughter No. 2 brought out a flash light so we could all marvel at the various parts--liver, kidney, large intestines, small intestines--she recognized them all from science class. I mourned for the poor guy, amazed that my big foot could do such damage but grateful the thing died a quick death. It was when I was expressing this sentiment that he moved his little tongue and tried to hop away. But with his insides stuck to the cement, he couldn't budge, and all we could do was watch him wiggle in place.

We thought about putting him out of his misery, but no one wanted to whack him on the head. It was all just too horrific, and all because I didn't look at the ground while I walked. I prefer to look up, especially on a dark and starry night with a bright moon that was nearly full. I bet the toad wished he had done the same.