Monday, 8:04 AM – The Hangover Walk
Carlton looked like a corpse in khakis. "I smell like wet fur and sadness."
"You smell like money," Travis said, clipping a leash—shoelace 2.0—onto Macaroni's collar.
"Did we get sued yet?"
"Not before coffee," Travis replied, sipping from a mug that read: Bark Now, Cry Later.
Linda's three corgis were now regular clients. In just a week, Pawffice Professionals had landed five more, including:
An elderly woman whose Shih Tzu only responded to French
A tech bro whose greyhound was on a keto diet
Mr. Glasser, a bald man with two Pomeranians named after Elon Musk's exes
Against all odds, the business was thriving.
Travis even made business cards.
They were printed on the back of cereal boxes.
But hey—branding.
---
Pawffice Planning Session
In their living room—featuring a whiteboard Travis definitely stole from a dentist's office—he paced like a manic CEO.
"We have seven dogs. Two humans. One of us is allergic to fur. The other thinks Scooby-Doo is a real breed. We're killing it."
Carlton pointed to the whiteboard. "Why is there a pie chart labeled 'Dog Vibes'? And why am I listed as 'Chaos Goblin'?"
"Analytics," Travis replied. "Very scientific."
"What's your point?"
"We expand," Travis said, tapping the board. "Premium services. Dog yoga. Aromatherapy. Organic treats. Rich people already spoil their kids—why not their corgis?"
Carlton blinked. "You want to open a dog spa?"
"No," Travis grinned. "A dog wellness retreat. Spa sounds like work. Retreat sounds expensive."
Carlton sighed. "Do we even know how to do that?"
"We know how to make a website."
"We do?"
Travis held up his phone. "Wix, baby."
---
The Ad That Changed Everything
> PAWFFICE PROFESSIONALS PRESENTS:
Tranquil Tails: A Wellness Retreat for the Refined Pup
Featuring:
– Dog Yoga ("Doga")
– Calming Cucumber Eye Treatments
– Guided Squirrel Visualization
– Organic Treat Tastings (human-safe too!)
$200/day per dog
"You're charging $200 for fake yoga," Carlton said flatly.
"You're not the target audience," Travis replied. "People with cash and anxious golden retrievers are."
They rented the community garden pavilion for $25, salvaged a yoga mat from a gym dumpster, bought ten cucumbers, and slowed down a Snoop Dogg album to create "spa music."
Their first client? Mr. Glasser and the Pomeranians.
"They've been emotionally tense since the Tesla dipped," he explained.
"We specialize in crypto-induced pet anxiety," Travis said, somehow with a straight face.
---
Disaster, Predictably
Things began calmly. Dogs on mats. Incense flickering. Travis gently pressing cucumbers to canine eyelids.
Then it rained.
Suddenly, twelve wet dogs ran in circles, trampling lavender, toppling the cucumber station, and barking at a group of seniors doing tai chi.
One dog peed on the speaker. It started playing distorted Snoop Dogg lyrics—backwards.
Mr. Glasser screamed, "IS THIS A RITUAL?!"
Linda appeared mid-chaos, holding an umbrella and a tiny robe.
"Is Butterscotch meditating or having a seizure?"
Travis tried to smile. "Both? Very avant-garde."
---
Pivot, Profit
Back at the apartment, Carlton dropped a bag of soggy treats on the table.
"We're being roasted in a Facebook moms' group. Someone said our retreat gave her pug PTSD."
"Perfect," Travis said, typing furiously on their site.
"Perfect?!"
"We pivot. New angle. Extreme canine therapy. Not chaos—exposure healing. Very cutting edge."
Carlton stared. "You're rebranding disaster as luxury trauma."
"And charging extra."
> EXTREME DOG RETREATS
Release Your Pet's Inner Wolf
"Some dogs need walks. Others need to face the storm."
Price: $300/day.
By Friday, they had three new bookings.
"We're not dog walkers anymore," Travis said, sipping cucumber water. "We're pet visionaries."
Carlton plucked a shredded leash from his hair. "This ends in either a lawsuit or an Animal Planet deal."
Travis grinned. "Either way—we win."
---
Bark Couture
One morning, Travis was mid-blending an "Organic Bone Smoothie" (Milk-Bones and oat milk) when the phone rang.
"Pawffice Professionals," he answered in a fake receptionist voice.
A sharp British accent replied, "Yes. I require a discreet escort service."
Travis frowned. "Sir… this is a dog business."
"Precisely. For Princess Buttermilk. We have a show tonight."
Carlton, munching cereal, mouthed: Princess WHAT?
"She's walking in Bark Couture. Bring your best collar."
Click.
---
Fashion, Fur, and Enemies
That night, they found themselves outside a warehouse in Chinatown surrounded by over-accessorized dogs and their equally ridiculous humans. A Great Dane in rhinestones panted behind them. A tutu-clad Pomeranian vibrated with excitement ahead.
"I think this is illegal," Carlton whispered.
Travis fixed his clip-on bow tie. "Which means we're finally making it."
Inside was chaos: neon lights, a fog machine, and a dachshund DJ named DJ BarkyBark.
They signed in as Team Buttermilk and were handed a clipboard.
"She's in Look 3 and Look 7," said a frantic woman with four Bluetooth headsets. "Don't let her near Ruthie the Whippet. They have beef."
"What kind of beef?"
"Wagyu. Literally."
---
Fashion Warfare
Buttermilk thrived. Sunglasses. Attitude. Full diva energy.
While prepping for Look 7, Travis spotted a man sprinkling something into Ruthie's treat bowl.
"Excuse me, what's that?"
"Protein glitter," the man said. "Toxic to poodles. Helps Ruthie shine."
"You just admitted that?"
"Fashion warfare," the man smirked.
Moments later, the handler tripped—"accidentally"—into a mountain of inflatable chew toys, setting off a chain reaction that toppled a French bulldog influencer named Croissant the Cutie.
It worked.
---
Buttermilk's Big Moment
She strutted out under the lights in Look 7, dress sparkling, tongue out. Then Ruthie appeared, dripping in sequins and growling judgment.
The crowd froze.
Ruthie lunged.
Buttermilk spun, dove into her purse, and flew into Carlton's arms like a glittery missile.
The crowd went wild. Someone chanted. Someone else fainted.
"BUT-TER-MILK! BUT-TER-MILK!"
---
Fame & Fur-luminati
Backstage, a woman in a designer suit handed Travis an envelope.
"That was iconic. She just landed a Barkle sponsorship."
Inside: $5,000 and a gift card for Ethical Dog Champagne.
Back at the apartment, they dumped the cash onto their sagging couch.
"We're not dog walkers anymore," Travis said.
"We're dog celebrity managers," Carlton added.
"This business is going places."
"Possibly jail."
"Or Netflix."
---
The Rise of the Pawffluencer
At 3:07 a.m., Travis's phone rang.
Caller ID: Barkle HQ.
"Congrats! You're now Barkle Ambassadors! Expect a ring light, a paw-dicure kit, and 300 lbs of raw salmon."
Click.
Carlton sat up, cheese stuck to his face.
Travis stared at the phone. Then they screamed.
---
Going Viral
By noon, their apartment had transformed into a glitter-covered chaos zone. Outfits exploded from boxes. A fog machine puffed mysteriously in the corner.
"Today's content: spa day… but with drama," Travis said, filming Buttermilk licking a bone.
"What kind of drama?"
"Stylist betrayal. Emotional arc. Think reality show, but fluffier."
Just then, the door knocked.
A man in a velvet robe stood holding a bulldog in a Versace tracksuit.
"I'm Pierre. This is Fabio. We run @FabioTheFurGod. Barkle only has room for one star."
He handed them a scented business card. Then dropped a rawhide bone shaped like a middle finger and left.
---
The Dogumentary
"It's war," Travis whispered.
They filmed Buttermilk in a dramatic interview setup.
Carlton whispered, "Should she cry?"
"She's a dog."
"Maybe she could howl?"
---
The video dropped that night:
"My Groomer Betrayed Me – A Dogumentary"
Featuring:
Slow-mo betrayal
Celine Dion barking
Cancelled golden retriever subplot
The internet exploded.
By morning:
117,000 followers
6 brand deals
Barkle email:
> "Prepare Buttermilk for BarkCon. She'll speak on the Pawffluencer Power Panel. Theme: 'Authentic Barking in an Over-Branded World.' Fabio will be attending."
Carlton looked up. "We have to give a TED Talk… for dogs?"
Travis stood tall. "No. We have to destroy Fabio. On stage. In front of cameras. This is our Avengers: Endgame."
That night, they gave Buttermilk media training.
"She has to stop licking her foot mid-interview," Travis said.
Buttermilk blinked.
Then she farted.
"She's ready," Travis nodded.
---