The Special Button

“Concern”

“Concern”

That was the button I pressed when something felt wrong, even if I didn’t know what.

I cocked my head, ears twisting to hear better, but nothing in the house moved. The heater whooshed on. The fridge hummed. But Mama, the “she” I lived with, didn’t make a single sound.

My eyes roved over the many buttons on the floor before me. Mama liked to brag to people, “He knows fifty words!” She’d smile so big, her whole face lit up. Sometimes I pushed buttons just to see that smile. She started when I was 4 months old, teaching me another way to communicate.

Buttons had become my superpower.

Sure, I could still give puppy-dog eyes, which usually made her say things like, “Oooh, what is it, honey? What do you need? Scratches? Want a cookie?” And sometimes she even pulled me onto the sofa, rubbing my ears and sides until my back legs twitched.

I loved that the best.

The buttons allowed me to be precise.

All I had to do was push cookie, and 50% of the time she said yes. The other 50% she said, "You just had one."

(Who’s counting?)

At first, we played games. I loved the way she would pat her chest and say to me, “Me Mama people. You, Ender puppy!” Then she would push the matching buttons so I could hear the words again. I would always stare intently, wag my tail a bit, and grin, yes, I can grin. Just ask her.

I know I am beautiful, as she says it on the regular, and a good dog. We even play a game called Body Parts. I had a button for nearly every part of me. She would push Belly, then scratch my belly. Push Feet, feet, and hold my paws. She’d finger up my lip, touch my biters, and say, "teeth, teeth,” and push the button. But she obviously forgot how she used to squawk and say, “Don’t bite me!” when I was younger. It’s one of her strange things I try to overlook.

I know they are biters, not teeth.

Personally, I’ll add that I am smart too, as I know the “park word,” even if she tries to spell it instead of saying it. But as I surveyed my buttons, none of them were close enough to settle the tight worry in my chest.

Something was wrong with Mama.

She wasn’t moving from her sleep place.

Last night she pressed, go to bed, and I beat her there—that was my way. I’d leap up on the bed, check for danger, then curl up and wait. She takes longer. I lay beside her all night, scooting away when she got too hot and back again when she shivered. Mama usually smells like warm rose tea and the peppermint candies she sucks on (not my favorite), but not tonight. I smelled sour sweat. Her breathing sounded like my squeaky toy, funny and frightening at the same time.

Nothing I did woke her.

Morning came. She still hadn’t moved.

I wiggled myself under her arm, as I did during thunderstorms, and lay there panting.

Far into the day, I finally left her, returning to my buttons.

I lifted my paw over the all done button, but I had pressed it so many times, and she had not stirred.

So, I howled.

When all else failed, howling at least makes me feel better.

There I unleashed my whole heart-wrenching performance—

Squirrel, squirrel. Ball, ball. Stranger people. Cookie. Snow, snow. Ender want mama— pounding buttons, barking, howling, whining. Honestly, I can out-howl the vacuum.

Even made the neighbors complain once.

But when the noise died away, the silence in the house was even heavier.

What good were these noise buttons if no one listened?

Tail drooping, I padded back to the bedroom. I rose on my hind legs and put my head on the bed.

She still didn’t move.

I checked her little water bowl on the nightstand, still full.

I licked her warm fingers.

Nothing.

Out the bedroom window, that darn squirrel was raiding the bird feeder again! So, I dashed out through my special dog door and told that thief EXACTLY where he could go. It made me feel better. Then I checked my yard, sniffing the night’s news, and discovered the stinky skunk had been back (again). I lifted my leg and left a polite "please leave" message on several things. I wasn’t really going to defend that boundary, as I had way too many baths over our first run-in. (That animal has issues.)

There was a button for bath too, but that’s how smart I am— yep, never push that one!

Then my belly growled.

At the buttons again, I pushed cookie. Waited.

Ender wants eat, three buttons.

It never failed to get Mama to fill up my bowl.

Until now.

Still nothing.

Now I really lost it. I think I hit thirty-three buttons in no particular order. I admit it, I was freaked out. This had never happened before. My fur felt too tight on my body, making me pant even more.

I hopped hard on the stranger people button, my paws slamming it over and over. That one always made Mama alert, made her check on me, check the door, peek out the window, and fuss a little. I even pushed help, hoping that magic would happen.

No answer came.

My mama needed help; she needed her friend people.

So I tried that button, hearing it echo in the silent house.

I whined to myself, feeling lost and scared. On the back edge of the sofa, I could see out the window at people passing by, and I barked madly, not to make them go away. I was calling them. Couldn’t they hear the difference? My voice had worry in it, not warning.

But people walked past.

Then I remembered the one button that brought her to me every time, the special one. Mama would even get down on the floor, not an easy feat for her at all. She moved her hands all over me, peering here and there at my body, looking for something. (I could get a lot of attention with that button.)

When I was younger, Mama said I had a surgery between my back legs that hurt like the dickens. I had dragged myself to the ouch button, pushing it over and over. It had made her cry.

That button had power.

I pounced.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch!

I attacked it with a flurry of energy— paws slapping it until it screamed its long oouuuchhh into the quiet house! Stopping, I looked hopefully down the hall.

I froze.

Listened.

A sound, a movement.

I sprinted back to the bed, toenails clacking on the wood floor.

Mama’s hand had moved; that’s a good sign! A GREAT sign! I leaped onto the bed and licked her face, taboo, yes, but there are emergencies.

Mama cracked her eyes open, her voice gravelly and small.

“I am sick as a dog,” she whispered.

She reached out to hold me, her other hand groping for her favorite toy, the rectangle she stares at all the time. (I fully admit my jealousy of that toy, but not today.)

You should have seen my grin.

I left the bed just for a minute, bolted down the hall, barking for joy, skidded to my buttons,

Planted both paws and pressed:

Love you.

Then I raced back to the bed to lie beside her, right where a good dog belongs.