If the word “smugness” had a face it would be that of the Horned Toad. Hardly a lizard and hardly a toad, he seems, accordingly, to look at the world with only contempt and suspicion. We found one under a bear claw poppy one bright autumn morning in the mojave.
He was a juvenile. His scales were lighter than most we had seen thus far, probably to camouflage himself on the white clay of the surrounding area. We were lucky to spot him and not glance him over as a pebble. I held him for a moment and he looked at me without emotion. Most lizards try to bite or escape. He did neither.
“Do your worst,” he seemed to say. I put him back exactly as I had found him; he would accept nothing less.
The Desert Toad 