People are intrigued by the owl. Only one neighbour winced, and nodded
sympathetically , and said "lot of mess, owls"
But almost everyone has flinched at the mention of the darling, mild
little toad, who only squatted under a spare bed and ate flies, and who
heaved himself so obligingly away when I carried him from the danger zone.
Grown men, farmers, soldiers, diplomats, men who have rescued sheep from
15 foot snow drifts, drunk tea with the Taliban, or sat face to face
with Gaddafi, have turned pale and swayed at the mere thought of my toad.
Just what is the toad's terrible secret?
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