Leftovers by Heather Waldorf Page A

“And so friendly!” she gushes, giving Judy’s haunches a good rub.
    â€œSarah, this is Helen Minter!” Dr. Fred exclaims, as if Helen Minter is a movie star or a politician. Someone I should know.
    Helen smiles broadly and extends a right hand worthy of a lotion commercial: perfectly soft skin, long fingers and shiny unchipped polish on manicured nails that probably cost her over a hundred bucks a month to maintain.
    I glance down at my own right hand, at the worthy-of-a-horror-movie chapped skin and chewed-down nails covered in grayish brown biscuit batter. I quickly rinse my hands under the tap, wipe them dry on my shorts and extend one to Helen.
    Dr. Fred is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, trembling like a puppy, so excited I wonder if he’s going to pee right there on the kitchen floor.
    â€œHelen is an old friend of mine, Sarah,” he says. “We went to high school together up in Cornwall. She lives in Toronto now, but she’s been spending a few weeks with friends upriver, at Wolfe Island. They brought their boat— and their dogs—down to check out the fun today.”
    â€œI’m a
huge
dog lover,” Helen gushes. “I have two Jack Russells and a cocker—”
    â€œUh, excuse me,” I interrupt, sniffing the air. The peanut butter bones will start burning in exactly ten seconds. I grab an oven mitt off the counter, stick my hand in the oven, extract the tray of dog cookies, set it on top of the counter, grab a fresh tray of unbaked biscuits,shove it into the oven and slam the door shut. All in one fluid movement, like my own private culinary ballet.
    I look up and Dr. Fred and Helen are still there, smiling at me benevolently.
    â€œHelen’s a holistic pet-food manufacturer, Sarah,” Dr. Fred says. “Tricks for Treats, Inc.”
    â€œHow would you like to have your dog biscuits mass-produced and marketed all over Ontario?” Helen asks.
    Is she talking to me?
Several strands of hair have fallen out of my ponytail into my eyes. I peer at Helen through them. The woman can’t be serious.
    Except she is. “Let me explain. Dr. Fred tells me you are quite the chef. More importantly, he was telling me how you’ve been experimenting with dog biscuit recipes. My own dogs are out there gorging on your creations as we speak. And, well...” She leans toward me and whispers, “They looked so tasty I even nibbled on a few myself.”
    So that’s why the biscuits disappeared so fast. The humans were eating them. “You want to buy my recipes?” I ask.
    Helen nods. “Dr. Fred would be willing to endorse the final product, of course. He tells me you’ve been reading up on pet nutrition in your spare time and clearing all your ingredients with him before you bake. It’s essential that you don’t use food items that would jeopardize the dogs’ health.”
    I nod. “Like chocolate and onions.”
    Helen continues. “What I’m especially taken with is your presentation. It’s quite clever, Sarah, using cookiecutters to make festive shapes, cornmeal sprinkles for texture and veggie puree for color.”
    â€œThe dogs don’t really care about all that,” I admit, waving a stray fly away from the tray of dog biscuits cooling on the counter.
    â€œNo,” Helen agrees, “but their owners do. Think about all those companies that sell designer dog coats. They make a killing. Dogs don’t give a hoot if their cold-weather gear is blue or red, or made of wool or denim, as long as it keeps them warm. But the dog
owners
buy the coats, not the dogs.”
    â€œYou have to market to the owners,” Dr. Fred pipes up.
    â€œAnd owners like shapes and sprinkles and colors,” I say, catching on.
    â€œExactly!” Helen gushes. “So how about it, Sarah?”
    â€œI...wow...” I feel like I’m standing on a rising loaf of bread.
    Dr. Fred