A fist-sized American toad clambered awkwardly up the steep hill from the wetland to my garden, my oversized puppy having prodded the sluggish animal out of its daytime nap. I shooed the dog away and picked up the unhappy toad, which I impulsively called Mikey.

Mikey thanked me for the unwanted attention by relieving himself on me (warning: they do this a lot), but unsurprised and undaunted, I carefully placed him under a large broken clay pot that lay in two pieces near a leaky faucet, hoping I could lure him to work in my garden.

Mikey tried out both rooms of the duplex pot and then snuggled down in the damp soil to wait for the evening hunt, leading me to conclude that, like the '70s cereal commercial, “Mikey likes it!” Pleased with myself, I resumed gardening.

I’m particularly fascinated by toads and become attached to my small amphibian friends like Mikey, who seem friendly (or at least easy to catch), don’t bite, and don’t give you warts. Male American toads like Mikey (Bufo americanus) emit a long, musical trill to attract females for mating. The NH Fish and Game Department posts photos, information and recordings of the American toad (and other native frogs) on its web site. You’ll find some amazing sounds there, sounds you’ll realize you’ve heard many times but didn’t listen to or recognize as frogs and toads.

Closely related to frogs, toads like Mikey live in drier habitats and uplands and have stubbier legs with less webbing on their feet. Female toads lay long egg strings instead of the masses laid by frogs. Toads also condense their cycle of metamorphosis, minimizing the aquatic (egg and tadpole) portion of their lives, with a longer toadlet and juvenile toad stage.

Dogs and many other animals don’t usually bother toads (more than once anyway) because of the glands on the back of their heads that secrete a white milky (sometimes toxic) substance. When that doesn’t work, the toad might suck in air to blow itself into much a larger, more intimidating animal.

Snakes, apparently undaunted by either of these techniques, are said to eat many slow-moving toads, though I wish they’d work on the chipmunks in my garden instead.

The first toads of summer remind me that the cycle of renewal is upon us. I sometimes take the biggest and strongest breeding adults like Mikey from dangerous roadway areas into my garden, where they serve as allies in my annual battle against slugs and nasty bugs. Toads seem to like my garden, because some areas are shady, moist toad havens that grow slug-attracting plants like Hosta. These natural warriors dispatch slugs and other nasties in abundance.

Next to pollinators such as bees, wasps and hummingbirds, toads top my list of favorite garden buddies, coming out at night to hunt. Sometimes I’m lucky, and a female toad lays a long egg string in my water garden, the eggs hatching into tadpoles in a matter of days. The tadpoles then become toadlets, tiny and impossibly cute versions of Mikey, that some damp evenings I see scattering in all directions, each hopping frenetically towards new territory.

I imagine most of the toadlets perish, killed by cars or eaten by snakes and birds, but there are so many. Some will survive and prosper, some will carry on their heritage and become the mature toads that we know and love.

Maybe Mikey will turn out to be Michelle and lay eggs in my water garden again this year. Less than two months later, a toadlet army will be everywhere on rainy nights, making it impossible to navigate a car or even walk in a straight line without squishing some of the diminutive troops.

But some of the toughest and luckiest of summer’s soldiers will survive the journey to new territories, dispersing from the hatch to eventually overwinter by using their strong hind legs like shovels to burrow deep into damp soil. More friends for next year’s garden!

By Eileen Pannetier, Master Gardener