Harold Is in Here

There’s a toad in my basement. No, that’s not a euphemism for a condition that afflicts women of a certain age. I discovered “him” when I went downstairs to put in a load of laundry. He was lumped, Jabba-the-Hut style, next to the dryer waiting, probably for his one true love.

He startled me, unaccustomed as I am to seeing other live creatures, save the dogs and cats, inside my home. But we quickly warmed up to one another as he watched me sort darks and lights while loading the machine. The next time I went down, there he was, as if he’d been expecting me. The third time, I went looking for him, finding his warty blubber by the water heater. This must have been the moment I dubbed him Harold.

Do you remember Weird Harold from Fat Albert fame? He was a member of the Junkyard Gang, tall and skinny. He played a harp made from bedsprings. I can’t pinpoint why I believe this, but I remember Fat Albert searching for Harold, calling into a dim alley, “Weird Harold! Are you in there!?”

Mom made a joke of that line as it had inexplicably lodged in her brain, deploying it on occasion when she went looking for one of us kids. Then she would laugh at her own joke.

Months into our cohabitation now, every time I head to the basement it is with the anticipation of greeting Harold. I’ve not been disappointed.

This morning, Doc discovered Harold and I had to intervene before he got too playful and Harold became a grease spot.

Rough-housing notwithstanding, I’ve worried about Harold’s well-being otherwise, hoping he finds whatever sustenance he needs in the dark, dank hollows of my unfinished cellar. He must, because he remains fat and hoppy. As I haven’t suffered incessant crickets carrying on inside my home this season, and the usual wolf spider population seems under control, I take it that Harold is managing quite well, dare I say, thriving.

There is no deeper message to this than that I have a toad in my basement, and I like it. I’d even go so far as to say that most of us could use a guy like Harold. Not because he’s special, but because he isn’t. He’s just there, steady as a cinder block, reminding me that companionship doesn’t have to be complicated to count.