“Rod says the kitchen can be sealed during the event. He can close the pass-through window, keep the kitchen door shut, and have all food prepped and plated before the animals come in. He’s alreadyworked out the logistics.”
This was all true.
I’d talked to Rod first, because Rod was the person whose cooperation I needed most and whose objection would be hardest to overcome. He’d surprised me by being not only willing but enthusiastic, which I’d initially found suspicious until he’d said, very casually, that he’d been thinking about getting a dog and maybe an adoption event would be a good way to see what was available.
Rod wanted a dog.
This was information I stored for later deployment.
Mark, who had been quiet throughout my pitch in the way he was quiet when numbers were running through his head, looked up from his laptop. “How do we make money on this?”
“We do drink specials tied to the event. ‘Adopt a Mutt-ini,’ ‘Rescue on the Rocks,’ something cute and pun-based that photographs well. We charge a small cover that goes to the clinic’s stray fund so there’s a charitable angle for marketing. Mia promotes it across all platforms for at least a week beforehand. We do it on a weeknight when traffic is lighter, so we’re not cannibalizing weekend revenue. We’re supplementing a slow night.”
“What if Jacks got Sky involved?” Finn muttered,barely audible.
Mark scowled.
I leaped out of my chair so fast I banged my knees on the table. “Yes! The Lightning love events like this. I bet they’d send the whole first line.”
Finn blinked. I agreed with his idea, and still he looked shell-shocked.
Mark tilted his head. “What’s the cost to us?”
“It’s minimal. Peter provides the animals and the veterinary oversight. The clinic handles all the adoption paperwork. We provide the space and the drinks, but people pay for all that. Our main expense is Mia’s time, which she’ll donate because she’s already texting me promotional concepts and doesn’t even know I’m pitching this right now.”
As if on cue, my phone buzzed.
MamaMia: If you don’t pitch Paws and Pours today, I’m pitching it myself and taking credit.
I held up the phone.
Mark read it and almost smiled, which from Mark was the equivalent of a standing ovation.
“One event,” Finn said. “It’s a trial run, Benj, and if a single health inspector shows up, it’s on you.”
“It’s going to work.”
“If a dog bites a customer—”
“It’s going towork, Finn.”
He looked at me like he was about to trust me against his better judgment, which happened more often than he probably cared to admit, and which I considered a testament to either my persuasiveness or his patience or some combination of the two.
“One event,” he repeated, holding up an index finger for emphasis.
I texted Mia.
Me: We’re in. Let there be pups and pussies.
MamaMia: No. Just no. And yay.
She responded with seventeen emojis, a link to a Canva template she’d already started designing, and the words: “I’ve been ready for this my whole life.”
Getting Peter on board was a different kind of negotiation entirely.
I broached the subject over the whiteboard the next morning, which was a strategic choice because Peter was most receptive to new information when he was doing something structured and familiar. Disrupting his routine with a cold pitch over coffee would trigger his defenses. Integrating the pitchinto the whiteboard update, where he was already in organizational mode, felt like approaching a caged tiger with a chair and a whip.
“So, General Tso had an idea,” I said while he was updating Shortcake’s medication schedule in his careful handwriting.
