The Tricky Mistress of Button.

By

Dan Studelska

“Well that’s the trick,” he mused thoughtfully, “What do you think, Tazzy-Monger…
what are you doing?” He watched, curiously, as the dog jumped against the wall, planting both
hind feet in a clothesbasket, which slid back as Tazzy whirled, snapping at the air. He laughed,
“You’ll never catch a fly you knucklehead!” Another snap. A pleased Tazzy with a triumphant
grin sauntered toward him. “Uhh, great move, Tazzy-Monger!” He grabbed the ears of the
beautiful Golden-Collie mix and ran his hands down the dog’s back, thumped the dog’s rib cage
and hindquarters. “I guess I don’t have to worry you’ll starve! Time for our Saturday hike!”
Minutes later he parked his Grand Cherokee in the access lot to Emmenegger Park, land
wedged between I-270, I-44, and the Meramec River, reachable by a bridge over the freeway and
a dead-end road.
They crossed the arched footbridge over the backwater gully fed by the river. Hiking up
a steep trail at the end of a large ravine, they encountered a woman frantically calling, “Button,
Button, come boy!” He nodded as they passed, “Well Tazzy, that’s why you are on this leash,” as
he pressed the button of the retractable. Mounting the ridge they espied a large Dalmatian, more
black than white, panting like a dog that had been running loose in the woods. He unsnapped the
leash from Tazzy’s collar and attached it to Button’s? He turned as a medium-sized man strode
up the trail. As the man approached, he thought, perhaps that’s the owner. “Your dog?” the man
queried. “Which one?” Tazzy’s master countered, “I have my dog’s leash on this runaway.”
“Dogs have to be leashed in this park, I’m calling the ranger,” the righteous man said prissily. He
stabbed the buttons on his cell phone and reported the crime. “But I saw a woman down the trail
calling for a dog,” he protested. “Doesn’t matter,” Righteous averred, “we are waiting for the
ranger.” “Not on my weekend,” he said, as he unhooked the leash from the Dalmatian. “Here,
you hold him,” he challenged, as he handed over the large slobbery hound. Mr. Priss gingerly
grabbed the dog, which pulled him off his feet as Taz and his indignant master walked huffily
away. Down the trail they encountered Button’s owner, young with blond hair. “If you are
missing a almost black Dalmatian,” he started to say. “Where is he!?” she screamed. “At the top
of the ridge. A concerned citizen has arrested him. The Gendarmes have been alerted.” “Oh
thanks,” she said, hurrying up the hill. Down in the parking lot there was only one other car. As
he put Tazzy in his car harness and planted him in the back seat, a squad car came flying down
the hill from the park entrance. “Some deal Taz, leash-law enforcement at its finest!” Mr. Priss,
red-faced, emerged from the woods and waved vigorously at the police. Priss and the police were
in earnest conversation as he drove past. In his rearview mirror he saw Priss trudge towards his
car. “That’s funny, I wonder how Button and the girl got out here?” Turning onto the frontage
road there suddenly was a CJ Jeep behind him with a blond at the wheel. He squinted, was that?
Yes! The head of a large dog poked up from behind her! “That tricky girl gave them the slip,
Taz!” he hollered. He turned on NPR and heard about a short story contest where you must use
the words button, fly, trick, and plant. “Who has the time for that nonsense, Taz?”