Welcome to Sunday Spin, where I blog about life beyond the realm of writing.
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The other day, hubs asked me to spray the weeds along our fence line. He’d bought this enormous sprayer (the kind you can strap on to your shoulders) and quarts of Roundup for the job. This is when I discover how serious he is about killing weeds.
So, I went out and pumped poison all over the unsightly weeds when I spied movement. I ceased spraying. I peered down into the long tendrils of overgrown grass. A fat toad hopped out into open space.
Immediately I knew I had doused him with Roundup. Without even contemplating my next move, I dropped the weed killer contraption, scooped up the endangered toad into my hands, ran into my house, and washed him off in the kitchen sink. Yes, I bathed a toad.
I eventually released him into the woods behind our house and he seemed okay. I mean, he wasn’t gasping or oozing pus or convulsing. But maybe the poison works slowly? Or perhaps it starts internally? Or maybe I didn’t kill him, but I crippled him. Yes, these distressing thoughts were filling my mind. I was sure this toad was doomed, and it was all my fault.
So, I decided we would ban Roundup and all chemicals from our gardens. I went searching online and stumbled upon Grandmother Musings where I found a weed killer recipe made of natural ingredients.
Now, I’m not sure that toads are safe from this recipe, but they probably have a better chance with vinegar than with glyphosate, isopropylamine salt or diquat dibromide.