Jill and Rocco have an apparitional experience

In which Jill finds a kindred spirit of the most unlikely kind.

I’m not the superstitious type, but I occasionally get signs.

This past summer, I kept Rocco at my house while we desperately networked him for an adopter. Rotating him with our dog, Pinky, meant Rocco and I would get up in the middle of the night for pee breaks—first me, then him.

The night was humid; the stars barely visible in the haze. We exited via the master bedroom, navigating the dark side yard on the way to the grass. I watched Rocco briefly sniff what appeared to be a grapefruit in the middle of the flagstone path. Bending down to pick it up, I was surprised to discover that it was, in fact, a toad.

I’d never seen a toad in our yard, or anywhere in our arid neighborhood. He was well-fed and, despite the lack of a moon, his slick skin was incandescent. I hovered over the toad, who stayed perfectly still. When Rocco was finished and we made our way back to the house, the toad was gone.

The next night, the toad had returned, as if taking up his station. I bent down to examine him once more, anthropomorphizing his satisfied grin. He looked as if he’d just eaten a pleasant meal and was out for his late-night constitutional. This scene repeated itself over the next several evenings.

That Saturday, I loaded Rocco into the car and drove him to his new family. I felt grateful and sad. I would miss him terribly, but it’s what we do.

Returning home late, I went to search for the toad, to share the news that Rocco had been adopted. I wondered where he’d come from. Was he some sort of talisman, ushered into our backyard by some universal force to send Rocco good juju? Or had he always been there, a member of an established amphibian family, loitering on our dimly-lit path after we were long in bed?

I wanted to thank the toad. Once more, I traversed the shadowy path with anticipation tinged with melancholy. But the path was clear.

And I never saw the toad again.