Toads - Tumblr Posts
Hello & welcome!
It's a pleasure to see you here, I have a lot of nicknames i go by so i'm none to picky (though Bunny has been sticking lately), similarly i use He/him but i'm not fussy there either.
24 Male, switch but very big sub lean, do with that as you will.
I enjoy talking about a bit this or a bit of that, be it from animals and bones to pretty people of all stripes
The tag #mystuff is my own ramblings or pictures, just my stuff without the reblogs. #photos from the past , are photos just from my camera that were pre June-ish 2024.
If you have questions, comments, or looking for chitter chatter i don't bite in my DM's; unless you ask me to~
It feels nice to see a toad that some stranger MILES away caught and I still recognize that grumpy face like a childhood friend. "That's my lil buddy! I love that lil guy"
The neighbors called me to rescue a toad from the garage. Look at this beautiful little blorpus
Huallaga River Stubfoot Toad (Atelopus pulcher), family Bufonidae, endemic to the Huallaga River drainiage of Peru
Poisonous.
Unlike many stubfoot/harlequin toads, this species is not endangered. They are considered vulnerable, however, due to habitat loss and the chytrid fungus.
Herpetologists believe that this species may also be found in nearby areas of Ecuador.
photograph by Yuji Abematsu
Crucifix toad By: Stan & Kay Breeden From: The Fascinating Secrets of Oceans & Islands 1972
To summarize this extremely long, rambling, ad-filled article:
Don’t use pesticides
provide water such as a bird bath on the ground, clean it weekly
provide shelter via toad houses pictured above or similar (there are TONS of examples of DIY toad houses out there)
i have another baby
i also have a pet monarch butterfly that can not fly and 2 other toads , one is named peter and the others name is fatass (asher)(the name asher is so my couisn can talk about my toad as her dad is a bitch and wont let her cuss )
SUMMONING YOU SUMMONING YOU SUMMONING YOU
*clears throat* well I've been summoned, so I'm here... might I offer...a bothered toad?
“no more after me”, a mini comic about the now-extinct golden toad. featuring lyrics from deuteronomy 2:10 by the mountain goats
hisssssssesssEEEEEwublublbublub
Red heads have secrets! #vasjk #artist #artistsoninstagram #copicmarkers #drawing #redhair #toads #red #prettygirl https://www.instagram.com/p/BsyF9xZl_HU/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=ljxrn6nzjx3t
Toad Words
Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.
It used to be a problem.
There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.
So I got frogs. It happens.
“You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”
I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.
Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.
Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.
I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening. I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.
Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.
Toads are masters of it.
I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.
When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.
I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.
I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.
But I can make more.
I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.
Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.
It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.
I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)
The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.
My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.
I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.
Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…
honestly yes but more importantly...FROG AND TOAD!!!!!!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH💖💖💖💖
I didn’t manage to catch this one, but I got a nice picture of it. Fowler’s toad, I believe. Correct me if I’m wrong, please. I love learning new things. And I love trying to catch these guys.
My dog nearly got this one, actually, but don’t worry - I didn’t let her get too close
And by the way, if anyone wants to give me a hand making an image ID for this, please do
