A Button for the Shell

The quiet chill outside nudged me back toward the house. Carrying my rattling snail shell gently, I slipped through the garden door and padded across the hallway rug into the dim living room. My horn button was still waiting in its little saucer on the nightstand. I reached in, picked it up, and climbed into the deep armchair. Carefully, with steady paws, I set the button flat over the spiral opening of the shell like a small wooden lid. It rested there snugly, keeping the dried pea quiet inside. Tucking my tail close around the armrest, I leaned back into the warm corduroy cushion.