Chapter 9
Benji
I was behind the bar during a slow stretch, watching Mia scroll through adoption listings on her phone while she waited for her ride, and something clicked in my brain with the almost audible snap of two things I knew should have been connected all along finally finding each other.
“Mia.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“How many followers does the Barbacks TikTok have?”
“Twelve thousand and change. Why?”
“And how many views did the Beyoncé jailbreak video get?”
She looked up from her phone. “Three hundred and forty thousand. Why?”
“And how many foster animals does Peter’s clinic have available for adoption at any given time?”
“I don’t know, Benj. I don’t have a census of your roommate’s veterinary practice memorized.”
“A lot. The answer is a lot. They always have animals. Peter says the clinic is constantly over capacity because people surrender pets they can’t afford and the shelter system is backed up and there aren’t enough foster homes.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed in the way they did when she could see where a conversation was heading and was already calculating the content potential. “Keep talking.”
“What if we did an adoption event here at the bar? Peter could bring animals from the clinic. We could set up a little meet-and-greet area. I’ll film everything for TikTok, you’ll handle the social push, and we’ll even tie it to a drink special so Finn and Mark see the revenue angle.
Pet adoption meets happy hour. We call it .
. .” I paused for effect, because timing is everything. “Paws and Pours.”
Mia stared at me for three full seconds, which was the longest she’d ever gone without responding to a pitch. Then she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me on the forehead.
“You brilliant, sparkly disaster,” she said. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“Better than the glow-in-the-dark shot glasses?”
“The glow-in-the-dark shot glasses gave four people green tongues for a week. Yes, this is way better than the shot glasses.”
I pitched it to Finn and Mark the next morning before opening.
I’d prepared, which was unusual for me. Finn noticed immediately, his eyebrows rising when I produced actual notes on my phone instead of my typical strategy of talking very fast and hoping enthusiasm would compensate for a lack of specifics.
“Adoption events are huge on social media,” I said.
“Every bar and brewery that does them gets massive engagement. We already have the audience from the foster videos, we have a direct pipeline to adoptable animals through Peter’s clinic, and we have Mia, who could sell ice to a penguin if you gave her a camera and fifteen minutes. ”
“Health codes,” Finn said, because Finn always started with the problem. It wasn’t pessimism; it was the way his brain worked, identifying every obstacle first so he could figure out how to get around them. “Animals in a food service establishment.”
“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 already worked 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 to work, 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 pitch into 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.
“Concerning?” One brow arched, though he didn’t turn his head to look at me.
“Hear me out. I think your cat-of-doom has a great idea. What if we did a pet adoption event at Barbacks? Your clinic could bring adoptable animals, we would set up a meet-and-greet area, I could film content for social media that would help both the bar and the clinic, and we could tie it all to a fundraiser for the stray fund. If it worked, we could do it monthly, maybe.”
Peter’s marker stopped squawking on the whiteboard.
He still didn’t turn around.
When he spoke, his words were slow and measured.
“You want to bring rescue animals to a bar. Is there a bad joke in this? Two cats and a handler walked into a bar? Something like that?”
It took everything in me to ignore the almost-joke and focus. “Yes, to a bar full of people who are already primed to fall in love because they’ve been watching foster kitten content for weeks. The audience is built, Peter. They just need somewhere to show up.”
“A bar is loud and crowded. It’s full of strangers and alcohol and unpredictable behavior. That’s the opposite of what rescue animals need.”
“Which is why you’ll be there. You and whoever from the clinic you trust to handle the animals.
You’ll control the environment, decide which animals are stable enough to attend, and even manage the introductions.
I’m not suggesting we turn Barbacks into a petting zoo.
I’m just proposing we create a controlled, supervised, one-evening event where people who want to adopt a pet can meet animals who need homes.
All this would take place in a setting that’s warm and social and doesn’t feel like a shelter. No offense to shelters.”
“None taken,” he said, finally turning to face me.
His eyes and mouth were doing the things they did when he was processing something that he wanted to dismiss but couldn’t quite find the flaw in.
There was a slight tension around his jaw and a narrowing of his eyes that I’d learned to read as, “I’m annoyed that you might be right. ”
“Which animals?” he asked.
“Totally your call. You know the animals. But . . . I know the animals that drink at the bar. Dogs and cats would be most popular, but only the ones who are socialized enough to handle the atmosphere. Not the new intakes or the surgical recoveries, obvi, the ones who’ve been waiting for someone to notice them. ”
“I’d need to talk to Dr. Kaur. This isn’t my decision alone.”
“Of course.”
“And I’d need to see the space beforehand, see how it’s set up and where the animals would be. I’d also need to see how we’d manage foot traffic and noise levels.”
“Absolutely. Come to the bar this weekend and we’ll walk through it.”
He studied me for a long moment.
I could see him looking for the catch, the reason this was a bad idea disguised as a good one.
I kept my face open and my mouth, for once, shut.
I’d learned over three weeks of cohabitation that Peter made his best decisions in silence, and the fastest way to push him toward “no” was to fill that quiet with pressure.
“I’ll talk to the clinic,” he said finally. “I’m not promising anything.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
He turned back to the whiteboard and finished updating Shortcake’s entry. I went to the foster room to feed the kittens. I did not celebrate, and I did not fist-pump, and I absolutely did not whisper, “Yes, yes, yes,” into Beyoncé’s fur while she squirmed and bit my thumb.
Because I was a mature adult who handled professional victories with dignity.
Beyoncé sneezed in my face.
I took it as a blessing.