I thought I'd have a happy dinner that night
with my parents.
I thought I'd tell them about the audition right away.
And they'd be so proud of me,
for overcoming my fears.
But it wasn't a happy dinner at all.
When I walked into the kitchen,
they were both already sitting at their places.
They looked up at me.
But neither one of them smiled.
"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting at my place.
There was a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs
on the table,
but they hadn't served any onto our plates.
"It's Antoine," my dad said.
"Oh no!" I said. "Is he sick?"
Antoine had followed me into the kitchen.
As I looked down at him,
he put his paws up on my chair
and started wagging his whole body.
I touched his nose, to see if it was dry,
and he licked my hand.
He seemed fine.
But maybe I was missing something.
"Did he throw up again?" I asked.
"He's healthy," my mom said.
Then she pointed,
and I realized.
Her ripped-up scarf was lying near her plate.
"Oh," I said,
and sank a little in my seat.
"I found it in your pocket," my dad said.
"This morning, after you'd gone to school.
When I picked your clothes up off the floor
to put them in the hamper."
I sank even lower.
Why didn't I ever remember
to put my clothes in the hamper myself?
"I should've kept that scarf safe in a drawer,"
my mom said. "That was my mistake.
Still, we shouldn't have to worry all the time.
Antoine needs to be trained."
That got me mad!
"I am training him!" I said.
Hadn't they been paying attention?
Pearl and I had been working so hard!
"Watch," I said.
I pushed my chair back
and stood up tall over Antoine
and pointed at the ground
and said, loudly,
"Sit!"
He didn't sit.
Instead, he wagged his tail a little
and barked back at me.
I felt mad at Pearl then.
She could always get him to sit.
Why couldn't she be here now,
when I needed her?
She was probably on the phone with stupid Ainsley,
listening to hilarious jokes.
"Sit, Antoine!" I said again,
trying not to think about Pearl.
"Sit!
Sit!"
Finally, he sat.
"Good dog!" I said,
and gave him a hug.
"See?" I told my parents.
"He can lie down, too. And shake.
You know that."
"We do know that," my mom said.
"You've been working hard," my dad said.
"But you need help," my mom said.
"The chewing has been a problem for a while.
And as you told me, you tried to get him
to drop that chocolate-covered spoon,
but he didn't listen. That's not safe for him."
I shouldn't have told you! I thought.
"Also," my mom continued, "he nips sometimes.
And jumps quite a lot."
"He's only playing when he nips," I said.
My mom ignored that.
"I've done some research," she said.
"There's a doggie training camp in the country
that gets rave reviews.
It's only two weeks,
and I think it'll do a world of good."
"Two weeks!" I said.
My sleepaway camp the summer before
had lasted almost two weeks.
So I knew:
Two weeks can take forever.
"Starting Sunday," my mom said.
"We made the arrangements
after Antoine ate the coffee table."
"You can't send him away," I said.
"The time will fly," my mom said.
"And we'll spend hours with a trainer at the end.
The camp's staff will give him a strong foundation,
and teach us how to build on that foundation."
I couldn't believe it.
I'd already lost my favorite times with Pearl.
She'd started tutoring Ainsley that very afternoon.
Now I was losing Antoine, too.
"I'm going with him," I told my parents.
"It's for dogs only," my mom said.
"I'll hide behind Antoine," I said, "and sneak in."
"If only you were smaller than Antoine,"
my mom said.
"And if only you liked dog food," my dad said.
"Because that's all they serve at dog camp."
I remembered then
hating the yucky food at my own camp.
And I knew my dad had a point.
Because I could tell,
just by the smell of Antoine's meals:
Dog food
is even worse
than pickles.
