I’m a fan of toads. I’ve always admired their calm and especially their humility. They never rank high on lists of favorite animals, the lowly toad isn’t inspiring poetry or love songs, and they certainly aren’t used as mascots for fundraisers. But the toad isn’t seeking our approval. As far as I’m concerned, they’re the most stoic of animals. My fondness for all things Bufonid is probably rooted in my childhood. The melodic trill of the American Toad (Anaxyrus americanus) provides the soundtrack to some of my earliest memories, times spent romping around Michigan wetlands. In fact, my first pet, ‘Hoppy,’ was a toad.
Fast forward 20 years and I’m still infatuated with the bumpy Buddhists of the amphibian world. My first university research project was focused on local toad behavior in a makeshift lab in the basement of my dormitory. Months later, I had the pleasure of working on a U.S. Forest Service crew where we surveyed high-elevation lakes for the endangered Yosemite Toad (Anaxyrus canorus). After that, my affinity for toads grew while living in a Costa Rican cloud forest. The same forest where the iconic Monteverde Golden Toad went extinct 30 some years ago. On walks through the forest, I often imagined seeing the stunning orange toads hopping along next to the trail. Then, while working with amphibians in Peru and Ecuador, I got to know the Cane Toad (Rhinella marina). For the same reasons I loved the other toads, cane toads quickly became one of my favorite species in the South American jungle.
In 1932, around 150 Cane Toads were brought from Latin America to Honolulu, Hawaii. The idea was that cane toads could help control insect pests, namely, the cane beetle. An Australian entomologist heard about the potential application of cane toads in pest control, and decided to bring some to Australia. We all know what happened from there.
My path crossed with the Cane Toad again while living in Hawaii, and yet again in Fiji. Despite their invasive status, I had to smile whenever I saw one, just doing toad things. It was like seeing an old friend in an unfamiliar city.
Now, studying amphibian responses to bushfires here in Australia, the toad is still every bit a part of my life. I moved to the only continent (besides Antarctica) with no native toads and they’re still with me. I can’t seem to escape them, so I might as well embrace them. When I see a toad in Australia, I’m flooded with conflicting emotions. On one hand, I recognize the havoc they have wreaked on native wildlife and the Australian psyche. On the other hand, though, I see the same toads I’ve always loved, still just doing toad things. Much like me, they’re living in a foreign land, with no members of their family nearby. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but maybe I feel a subconscious kinship with the Cane Toad. I’m not advocating for their protection, far from it. Though sometimes, when I tell an Australian that I am here studying frogs, they jump into stories about the creative ways they’ve devised to kill cane toads, as if I’d be proud. Do they expect me to thank them? Make no mistake, cane toads don’t belong in Australia, but when I hear them demonized, part of me feels for the toad. They have no allies here, so the next time I hear someone talk about hitting cane toads with a golf club, I’ll stick up for the humble toad. Afterall, even the Devil has an advocate.
