On The Gold Coast: Rain Is On The Way
Writing with a vividness that allows you to see, hear, smell, Judith Wallis describes the coming of rain on a Queensland evening - and the hunt for a poisonous toad.
Rain is on the way. We can smell it in the air.
From their hiding places in the garden the frogs sing. The sopranos begin. First the happy musical sound of the Orange-eyed Treefrog and the long wavering call of the Sedge frog. From his place among the reeds in the small pond a scarlet-sided Pobblebonk advertises for a mate, his resonate and repetitive sound ‘Bonk. Bonk.’ is like the slow tick tock of a grandfather clock. Using the drain pipe as an echo chamber, the big green treefrog fills in the bass notes. Woomp woomp, bonk, trilly-de, reeeak, chit-chit.
A wonderful chorus of hope. Hope for water to nourish the earth, to fill the cups of the bromeliads and for puddles that last a week.
By mid-afternoon the sky is dark and we turn on the house lights. The first drops of rain fall as we sit down to eat our evening meal and increase to a steady, light patter within an hour.
The cat paces before the screen door, ears pricked, straining to see out into the darkness beyond. Sensing he wants to investigate, I open the door and let him out only to scoop him up and toss him unceremoniously back in the house when I see the large cane toad on the porch.
The toad squats in the light from the open doorway. He puffs himself up and with head erect, stares back at me. There is defiance in his posture and for a moment I almost weaken, beguiled by his handsome profile.
No, I tell myself, these poisonous creatures are a menace and must be caught. And arming myself with a torch, a bucket, some plastic bags and a great deal of bravado, I set out to catch the toad.
He is no doubt aware of my murderous intent and smartly hops off across the grass with me (barefoot) in pursuit. As I slip and slide about on the wet grass lunging this way and that, the toad always a jump ahead, I realize I am no match for a leaping frog and decide to play a waiting game.
I stand still. Rain drips from my hair and runs down inside my collar. Carefully, ever so gently I place the torch on the ground, the toad trapped in its beam. I move slowly. One step at a time. Closer.
Now! And I drop the bucket over him.
After a moment the bumping inside the bucket stops and using the plastic bags as a glove I deftly grab him and turning the bag inside out tie a knot in the top.
Got you! Into the freezer you go.
I am assured freezing toads is the kindest way of dealing with the unwanted creatures. They simply fall into an eternal hibernating state of dreaming.
And, thankfully, I have so far remembered to put the little packages out with the rubbish and have not mistakenly open one for lunch.
