By Janet Manders

My owner handed me over to her eight-year-old granddaughter. Actually, that’s not how it really happened. The kid grabbed me. Right out of the tight, protective grasp of the person who typically holds me. During that abrupt abduction, I yearned for a way to shield my delicate ears from the loud gasps of, “Hey. Be careful. That’s not a toy, you know.”

 It’s rare to be held in different hands. After all, I’m precious; replacing me isn’t cheap. But this unexpected experience feels kind of good if I’m going to be honest. Instead of the usual clench that covers most of my body, this is a looser touch and most of my back is free. I could get used to this.

Fingers begin to poke at my buttons. “Grandma. What’s your password?”

Oh boy. What’s next? I don’t think it’s going to be the gentle scroll through photos that I enjoy taking with my owner. Those scrolls can take all morning long and are often accompanied by soft sighs or laughs. Sometimes, like an early spring drizzle, a single teardrop plops softly onto my face. My ability to store and provide those priceless memories fills me with so much pride.

Uh oh. More pokes. Is this kid going to turn on music and dance with me? If so, I’m a little nervous that what she chooses will feel like a crazy carnival ride. I’m too old for this. Please, please, please, not “Baby Shark!”

I’ve heard that eight-year-olds can be a little impulsive. Rumor has it that my predecessor was dropped by a youngster, resulting in some pretty serious damage to her face and internal organs.

This is getting scary. Where’s my protector? Why is she letting this happen?

I feel a poke on the green call button and immediately relax. I can do this. This is what I was built for. My earliest service for humans.

“Hi. Can I talk to Jo?”

After a moment, I hear a second child’s voice. It’s sweet, maybe a year younger than the eight-year-old. “Hi Cora.”

“Hi, Jo. Did the bunny get caught in the trap we set last night?”

“Well, my dad and I went outside to look this morning. The carrot is gone, but I’m not sure if it was a bunny. Maybe it was a coyote.”

I hear my owner laughing in the background. Much louder than I’ve heard her laugh in a long time. I get it. We live in the concrete jungle of urban Madison, not exactly fertile breeding grounds for coyotes. I wish she’d quiet down, though, so I can hear the rest of the conversation.

“It had to be the bunny, Jo. Coyotes don’t eat carrots.”

“That’s actually not true. I saw it on the internet.”

“The internet lies.”

Oh geez. Those innocents are starting to attack one of my valuable functions. My ancestors’ skills have been developed and refined over the years. Not too long ago, my grandma couldn’t do much more than help her owners talk to others. I’ve evolved, however, and I can now google anything, take those photos, provide a calendar, keep notes, send short written messages, and so much more. If you ask me, I should be listed as one of the seven wonders of the world.

Let those youngsters think what they want. I know the truth. Connection, relaxation, memories, and so much more happens — thanks to me. I love my life. Even in new hands.

This story is based on a conversation between my two granddaughters, probably the first time I heard them talking to each other on the phone. They are very excited to have this story published as they think it makes them famous!

©2025 Janet Manders

Janet Manders writes stories about her life, with the hopes her children and grandchildren will appreciate them years from now. Recent works of hers have been published on True Stories Well Told, on 101words.org and as part of the 2025 Birren Center’s Anthology Collection entitled Second Chances. Janet lives in Madison with her husband, near her daughters, grandchildren, and writing friends.