Member-only story
Warts Don’t Come Easy
‘The last thing you want to hear from a health professional is that something on your body has spread roots and formed a colony.’
On a hot summer day in 2003, I sat on a dirt road at my grandmother’s dacha, busy placing rocks on a toad’s back.
Spared any extra weight, the toad — even with her small size — used to jump several meters. Now, the four dusty rocks prohibited much movement. Surprised by the sudden interference, the toad sought its escape the only way it could: by crawling.
I remember the pleasure I got from studying the toad’s skin. It was dark green, with protrusions like hard pimples all over its back — a frog’s armour. It felt rough as I ran my finger over it. I wondered what the toad felt with all the rocks on its back. Did it feel like it was doing something useful, say, working a long-haul delivery? Or did it just feel tortured by a five-year-old imbecile?
The idea to play with toads came from my grandmother, Tanya, whom I stayed with during the summers at the dacha. When she was little, my babushka made a straw from hay and stuck it up the toad’s ass. Then, licking her lips, she’d take the available end in her mouth and blow as hard as she could. The result was that the toad’s insides inflated like a balloon. Occasionally, my…