Saw several horny toads on my bike ride today. Actually, they’re not toads but lizards, the Texas Horned Lizard to be exact. We call them “horny” not because of sexual predilection but because that’s what everyone else calls them in this part of Texas.

“Seen any horny toads lately?”

On the elementary school playground my friend Jack hypnotized horny toads. He’d turn them over and rub their tummies and they’d go all limp. Looked hypnotized to me, but Jack never tested to be sure.

He could have.

“When you wake,” (said with the look of Bela Lugosi as Dracula) “you’ll be a vicious German Shepherd and Mike is threatening your master.”

At summer camp we raced horny toads. We would capture likely speedsters, place them alongside those of fellow counselors and await the starter’s whistle. The idea was to coax your entry (by stepping close behind, shouting and herding him or her) to the finish line.

We raced frogs and long-tailed lizards (maybe the six-lined racerunner) too. Frogs were too erratic, which usually got them squished by overeager handlers. Long-tailed lizards were too fast. Even if you could keep one on a straight line, you were unlikely to catch it again, which you had to do to win the race.

And what does this have to do with retirement? Maybe this: I haven’t thought of racing horny toads since I was a boy, and, just maybe, my life has room for him again (i.e. the boy not the toad).