Blood on My Shoes

Sophia inspecting remains of the toad

As soon as I saw so much dried red blood on the heels of my platform slip-ons (the best kind of open-toed shoes to wear in this sandy environment), the scene of the killing became clear to me.

The night before, walking to our cottage, I noticed stepping on something substantive and crunchy. At that spot, shaded by the small bamboo grove from the twinkling stars and half-moon light, I thought it must have been a piece of a branch or a flower bud – like one of the large hibiscus that surround the path. No, in the daylight it became clear: I had decidedly splattered an innocent toad with my clunky shoes. It lay on the path as if in mid-hop, but with guts strewn around it and small ants climbing aboard to claim the meat. With the morning light to retrace last night’s steps, I followed the trail of the poor creature’s insides that had been unknowingly dragged along, all the way to the entrance of the cottage, where, mercifully, we remove our shoes.

When I first saw the splattered blood on my shoes I instinctively shrieked. But with my daughter around, I composed myself and went to clean the shoes. Then, when I was overcome (temporarily) with nausea by the realization of my crime and the sight of all that dried blood, I could no longer face my weapon to clean it. Fortunately, someone else was around to help me clean the blood off my shoes. When I was back home around noon, the reptile had been flicked off the path and lay in the same ready-to-hop position, but was already petrified.