I was working down in the lower corner of the greenhouse, hoeing the tops off little weeds and digging out some grass roots, trying to get at least one growing space weed free: good luck. I have a pile of chopped leaves there in the corner waiting for me to spread them on the worked soil, to fork it around as a mulch, a barrier to new weed growth and as a moisture-retention layer, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted an unexpected motion.

It was just a little flicker, and I didn’t pay much attention to it, using the hoe to channel a shallow ditch for water to run from plant to plant. I run a simple submersible pump, the type you would use in your cellar after a hurricane, to irrigate from my million-gallon home pond, pumping through a one-inch black pipe to the greenhouse and letting the water run downhill, plant to plant, row to row. I was perfecting this irrigation system, primitive as it is, and the flicker appeared again. This time I took a closer look and that’s when I spied Mr. Toad. (Or Ms. Toad.)

Mr. Toad was heavily camouflaged. He was nearly invisible. His warty brown skin looked just like the chopped leaf pile, or the brown of the soil. No matter where he placed himself, he immediately disappeared. I suppose he could have been anywhere, but he seemed to prefer this lower corner of the greenhouse which might be a bit cooler, more damp, and when I gave myself to further study, I noticed there were grasshoppers nearby – within a few feet – and other flying insects, and I became an immediate ally. Toad found a home and I was happy to have him. I was not expecting much in the way of insect damage, not yet, not in a new greenhouse relatively fresh, but I did notice a few holes in my green bean leaves. Nature moves around when we are not looking and I have no idea how or when the toad got in the greenhouse, but it would not be difficult with everything open to the wind.

I don’t know the difference, one toad to another toad, but I am sure there’s a ton to know and I am OK in my ignorance. This toad was not particularly afraid of me, and toads have a myriad of defensive systems, including frightening secretions and the mental – real or otherwise – threat of skin like theirs. That’s enough for me. I don’t need to touch it. I am happy watching it hop around the tomato plants, hunting the small grasshoppers. We had a dog once, maybe Cairo, and Cairo found this big toad that lived between the back door and the outside shower, and, smart as she was, she was not smart enough to not pick up that big mother toad in her mouth and that was the last toad she ever tasted as she spit it out toot suite and shook her head side to side as her mouth foamed up with a horrid tasting whipped cream substance straight out of toad hell.

Anyway, this toad is the first permanent resident of the greenhouse, and I think the toad needs a name.

Announcing the “Name that toad contest.” Please send your suggestions via Facebook through the “Walden’s Bitch’n Kitchen” page. Please do not suggest any of the following names: Hoppie, Dick, Wartie, Wart, or Aunt Avis.

The winner will receive six free tomato plants from Phelps Woodside Farm.