Leftovers Read Free Page B

“Like Al
cat
raz. The prison, get it?”
    â€œHi, Sullivan,” Johanna says, batting her lashes at him. If I ever tried to pull off a move like that, guys would think I had a facial tic or Tourette’s or something.
    I spear a cherry tomato with my fork and accidentally elbow Johanna. “Sorry,” I mumble. Serves her right for sitting left of a leftie.
    Johanna, the drama queen, rubs her arm and—give me a break—inspects it for bruising. “Can we call you Sully?” she asks Sullivan.
    â€œSully?” Brant guffaws, his mouth full of potato salad.
    â€œBeats a nickname like Bran Flake,” I mumble.
    Heads swivel toward me. Did I really say that? Out loud?
    Sullivan laughs. Loudly. He thinks I’ve made a joke.
    A long summer just got longer.

SEVEN
    Every day after lunch, the dogs nap in the shade. There’s free time for the “volunteers” until 3:00 PM .
    â€œEnjoy!” Dr. Fred exclaims, opening his arms wide as if to convey that Moose Island is some lush expanse of wilderness. A Canine Club Med. There are no actual moose on Moose Island; it was named for old Richard Moose, a rich, dog-loving bachelor who left the island to Dr. Fred on the condition that it be maintained as a “Pooch Paradise.”
    Get real.
    Here’s what Camp DGF
really
looks like:
    Imagine a postcard-perfect tropical island in the South Pacific. You know the kind: tall palms swaying gently in the breeze, long stretches of soft sand, a clear green ocean teeming with iridescent fish, fresh air scented with pineapple and coconut, exotic birds soaring and singing across azure skies. In simpler terms: Paradise. Pooch or otherwise.
    Then bomb it.
    Reduce “Paradise” to a few large boulders and a bucket of rubble. Transport it to eastern Ontario and drop it into the St. Lawrence River, one of the busiest shipping lanes in North America. Plant a few willows and evergreens. Sell it to old Mr. Moose, who hooks up some basic water and electricity and builds a stone lodge, five tiny clapboard guest cabins and a boat launch. Then along comes Dr. Fred, who adds the big modern dog barn.
    Look away from the billows of smoke from the factories downstream and the rubbernecking Thousand Islands boat tourists and their expensive video cameras. Don’t breathe too deeply, unless you enjoy the stench of fuel and sulfur. Avoid the dead fish that wash up on the briny shore in the wake of the freighters chugging to and from the Atlantic. Swimming? Can you spell
c-o-n-j-u-n-c-t-i-v-i-t-i-s
? And then there are the dogs. Dogs everywhere: big dogs, little dogs, old dogs, three-legged dogs, blind dogs, deaf dogs, confused dogs, nervous, barky, jumpy dogs. (Only the really sick dogs and chronic biters have to stay behind at Dr. Fred’s clinic/shelter on the mainland.) So obviously you have to watch where you step.

    Things can only get better, right?
    That same day, after supper (Victoria made a meatloaf, with more enthusiasm than meat, if you ask me), Dr. Fred pushes back his chair, stands and clears his throat. “A new participant is joining us this evening. It’s quite unusual forus to take on a dog once the summer session has started, but, well, this is a special case. You’ll see what I mean when—”
    â€œWatch this.” Sullivan sticks his fingers between his teeth and lets out a head-splitting whistle.
    A rumble in the hall. The cups on the table begin to rattle. Frenzied pounding on the linoleum.
THUD!
Something the weight of a small truck skids into a wall in the rec room next door. The impact causes a framed picture to fly off its nail and crash onto the floor in a mess of glass shards. Victoria runs with the broom and dustpan to clean it up.
    Careening around the corner, then galloping through the kitchen doorway toward us, is a slobbering, four-legged black beast. It reeks of dirty feet and tuna salad left too long in the sun. The creature halts three feet from