My roommates walked through the front door and stopped in front of my room. Apparently something has happened, I thought. Dave quietly spoke the next words: "You need to come outside. You'll never believe who's waiting for us at the front door." He could only be referring to Toad Seefus, who we assumed perished after our videotaped feeding several weeks ago. I maintained my composure, partly because I did not believe my roommates and partly because if the story were true, if our apartment pet had indeed returned from hibernation and awaited more moths, I did not want to frighten him with my inner excitement. I creeped closer and closer to the door anticipating disappointment, to find our hallway barren of any life. More and more of the hallway was revealed as I slowly creaked open the front door. On my left sat a still, brown amphibian looking straight into my eyes. After fifteen seconds of anticipation, I knew exactly what to say upon this sight:

"That's not our toad."

This creature that sat in our hallway was a smaller, browner imposter. We can see the tiniest details when what we are looking at has a more personal attatchment. Some people have trouble distinguishing between my mom and her twin sister, but I could never confuse my mom for my aunt. At the same time, I went through elementary, middle, high school with the Iversen twins--- acquaintances but never friends--- without ever being able to definitely distinguish between the two. Most people see a toad as a toad, every toad the same as his neighbor toad. I was one of those people until Toad Seefus first propped himself near our door. Now I know, and I still wait for the real Toad Seefus. No imposters allowed.