Three days after GobblesGate was resolved, Buttermilk had more brand offers than she had squeaky toys. And that was saying something—she had a dedicated closet labeled "Squeaks Only."
Their inbox overflowed with messages:
Guccidog: "We'd like her to walk in Milan in a rhinestone tutu."
Dogflix: "A 10-episode reality series: Keeping Up With Buttermilk."
Beefcoin: "We'll pay in crypto. It's edible. Maybe."
Airpup One: "We want to name a jet after her."
Kibbles & Tycoon: "Our CEO will personally deliver $1 million in unmarked tennis balls."
Travis was giddy.
"This is it. We're going global. Buttermilk's going to Cannes!"
Carlton, however, was suspicious. He sat on the floor surrounded by printouts, a cork board, and a tangle of red string that connected photos of every brand CEO with cryptic captions like "Too much eye contact?" and "Owns 3 ferrets. Why?"
"I don't trust that company," he said, pointing to one letter written on black stationery.
Travis read it aloud:
"We are Canine & Claw. We'd like to make Buttermilk the face of our new 'Elite Essence' line. It's luxury scent. For dogs. Smells like power and victory."
"Sounds normal to me," Travis shrugged.
"They used scented ink," Carlton whispered. "I smelled it and had a hallucination about being chased by a wolf in a silk bathrobe."
---
Later that day, they went to the Canine & Claw HQ for a meeting.
The building was shaped like a bone.
Inside: marble floors, robotic receptionists, and an espresso bar for poodles only.
They were greeted by a tall woman in an all-leather suit and sunglasses indoors. She introduced herself only as "Miss Pawtoria."
"Buttermilk," she said, not smiling, "has... potential."
Travis beamed. "She just did a 45-minute livestream about her skincare routine. 80,000 views."
Miss Pawtoria nodded. "We'd like to sign her to an exclusive lifetime contract. Global campaign. Thirty million up front. In cash. All she has to do... is never bark again."
Dead silence.
Carlton nearly choked on the sparkling meat water he was sipping.
"She's... a dog," he said. "That's her thing."
Miss Pawtoria adjusted her sunglasses.
"We are targeting a silent elegance demographic. Buttermilk will no longer bark. She will gaze. She will glow."
Carlton stared at Travis.
Travis stared at Buttermilk.
Buttermilk licked her own nostril.
---
Back at their apartment, Carlton was furious.
"They want to take away her voice, Travis. Her bark! That's like asking Beyoncé to perform in mime!"
Travis paced. "But it's thirty million dollars. We could buy a yacht. No—a fleet of yachts. And fill them with chew toys!"
But then they turned on the TV.
Breaking news: "Canine & Claw Accused of Brainwashing Influencer Dogs into Silence Cult."
A German Shepherd appeared onscreen in a bowtie, blinking slowly. The caption read:
"Former Spokesdog: I Miss Barking."
Travis dropped his chew-stick latte.
"Dear lord. We almost joined a dog cult."
Carlton pointed at the screen. "I TOLD YOU. That's the same bowtie from my conspiracy board!"
---
They sent a strongly worded email to Canine & Claw.
It simply read:
> "Woof off."
---
The next day, Buttermilk did a full-volume barkathon on livestream. People celebrated in the comments. One person wrote:
"My dog barked along. It was spiritual."
Travis and Carlton ended the stream by doing a dramatic group howl with her.
Then they turned to each other.
"Maybe," Travis said, "we don't need a yacht. Maybe all we need… is this poodle, a camera, and just enough meat snacks to survive the algorithm."
Carlton smiled. "And a second ring light. That last one caught fire."
---