#68 PUPPY – BELLY BUTTON  

As Scooter watched a diapered toddler struggle against the new art of walking, he tucked close to my feet, leaned hard against the sofa, and looked up.

“I’ve noticed this about you and Dad. Now I see it on that little thing mimicking a person.”

“That little thing is a person.”

“Says you,” said Scooter. “That little thing is . . . Oh-oh! Look! It’s near my toy box! Stop it!”

“Scooter!”

“That Little . . .”

“It’s a baby person, Scooter. His name is Chris.”

“Mom, that Chris thing has what you and Dad have in the middle of you. It’s a hole. What’s that hole for?”

“The belly button?”

“It’s a button?”

Well, we call it a button. You have one.”

“I have one? Scooter was on his feet. Chris had fallen and was howling.

“Can you use that button to turn him off?”

“Scooter Sublime! Stop it.”

“I don’t have one of those,” he said, nose to belly, checking.

“You do, but it’s hard to see. Nearly all animals have a belly button.

“Birds?”

“Well, not birds, not snakes, but dinosaurs had belly buttons. A fossil related to the triceratops was recently found with a belly button scar.”

Baby Chris and his parents left us. I was tossing toys back into the box when Scooter returned to the subject of navels.

“My belly button,” he said. “It should be in my middle. Like yours?”

“It’s there.”

“It’s not.”

“Look at this, Scooter. These are baby retrievers. See the cord’s stub? You have one,” I said. “It’s just that dog navels leave hardly any evidence. Usually, just a tiny scar.”

 “Navel? I have a navel, too?” I had Scooter’s full attention, “Are these things important for me to know?” he asked with an edge of alarm.

“Belly Button. Navel. It’s all the same. Let’s look for yours,” I said. “Jump down.” He shifted from sofa to floor. “Supine, please.” Scooter started a roll to his back.

 “Be respectful with that camera,” he said.

I searched. I saw nothing. I separated the light swirl of belly hair. Nothing. Was Scooter right? I found no sign of a belly button.

I did some research. It should be on the skin about midway between spleen and stomach. I ran my index finger down from his ribs, pressing lightly as I had read to do, And I felt it! A tiny knot of scar tissue, not much larger than sesame seed.

“There it is, Scooter! About an inch or so above your . . .”

“Mom!”

I told Scooter how that little cord runs from a female’s placenta to a pup’s stomach. How it brings food, and oxygen, and carries off waste.

“Some researchers say pups even get mom’s mood from chemical signals carried by the cord. I paused before adding, “I’d like to meet your mom.”

“Was that sarcasm?” he asked. I ignored the question.  

“When you were whelped . . .”

“Whelped?”

“Born. Come on, Scooter. Your birth mom chewed you free from the cord, leaving just a little stub at your belly. You saw the picture. You were ready for milk, and she was making it with help from hormones left in the birthing stuff: placenta, cord, sac.

“And, no, Scooter, don’t even ask. I didn’t chew my children’s cords.”

“I’ve pretty much got it figured out now,” said Scooter. “I’m retriever.”

“Half, yes.”

“I think my retriever half got the belly button, and we found it. My poodle half probably has the navel. Shall we look for that?”

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