Leftovers by Heather Waldorf

arms and legs. “Today
I’m
in charge.”
    Ignoring the stick at my feet, I set the books on the boulder and take ten steps backward, away from Judy.
    â€œJudy, come,” I say.
    Judy just stands at the water’s edge, tongue lolling, entire rear end wagging, waiting for the stick.
    â€œJudy! Come!” I command, more firmly this time.
    Judy cocks her head. Her bushy right eyebrow shoots up questioningly.
    â€œJUDY! COME!”
    A group of gulls lands on a boulder a hundred feet down the shore. Judy forgets all about the stick and me and charges off after the big white birds, barking as if a UFO has just landed on the beach.
    â€œYou stupid mutt,” I grumble, watching Judy pick up speed as the gulls, screeching, take off over the river. Shaking my head in disgust—at Judy or my own incompetence, I’m not sure which—I plunk back down on the boulder and keep reading.
    Use treats to reward positive behavior
, the book says.
    That I can manage.
    â€œJudy!” I bellow down the beach after her. “COOKIE!”
    Aha! Judy stops in her tracks and whips her head toward me. At least the stupid mutt isn’t deaf. I feel a surge of success. But then Judy notices that all I’m holding up is a mini-Milkbone, just like all the mini-Milkbones I’ve been feeding her all morning, one for each time she sticks her soggy nose into my shorts pocket. She turns her attention back to the birds.
    I slam the book shut and let my shoulders sag in defeat.I’ve failed at dog training, or Judy training in any case. “It’s not rocket science, for shit’s sake!” I can imagine my mother chastising me. And she’d be right, because I remember, back when I was six or seven, getting Brownie to sit for Cheerios, carrot slices, little bone-shaped kibbles— he wasn’t picky. But Brownie was a smart dog. A calm dog. A good dog.
    Not a maniac like Judy.
    I know that Dr. Fred expects more of me. I know that if I go to him and tell him I can’t do it, he’ll just grin and give me a pep talk about not giving up on Judy—and myself— so soon.
    And it’s not like I have the actual option of throwing in the towel anyway. I’m stuck at Camp Dog Gone Fun for the rest of the summer. Judy is my punishment, my community service. My work here isn’t necessarily supposed to be easy—or fun. That’s what Victoria would say. So I guess I’ll just have to up the ante with Judy, start from scratch.
    Wait a minute.
From scratch.
    A lightbulb—an
oven
light—pops on in my head.

FOURTEEN
    I wedge the last of the crusty lunch dishes into the rattly dishwasher, slam the door shut and push the ON button. I’ve tied Judy to the shady side porch and tossed her a rawhide loop to chew on. It’s the size of a mountain-bike tire; it should keep her busy for at least an hour.
    Time to get to work. Hi-ho, hi-ho, as Nicholas goes around camp singing.
    Into a big mixing bowl, I scoop a few cups of whole-wheat flour, a cup of cornmeal and a big bowl of leftover oatmeal from breakfast. I crack three eggs into the mix, pour in a monster can of mixed vegetables and add just enough salt-free chicken broth to make a nice pliable dough.
    Victoria rushes past me on her way outside for her midafternoon jog. She’s got a trail worn around the perimeter of the island. Victoria does fifteen laps of this trail every single day—heat wave, downpour, impending hurricane, nothing stops her. Sullivan told me that during the winter months, when his mother and Dr. Fred liveon the mainland, Victoria runs along Highway 2 every morning, dodging the transport trucks and potholes and roadkill. I’m sure some people would call it dedication and stamina. Probably the same people who gave Victoria all those framed
Counselor of the Year
awards she’s hung around the lodge as a reminder that she’s “here for us.”
    â€œDo we have any cookie