Travis sat on the stoop of their apartment building, eating leftover bagel bits from his hoodie pocket like a depressed squirrel. His hoodie had three different cream cheese stains, all of which he wore with pride.
Across the street, a girl in yoga pants—capital-Y Yoga Pants—was walking the fluffiest poodle Travis had ever seen. It looked like a cloud that drank kale smoothies. She stopped to tie her shoe. The poodle looked bored. Travis fell in love instantly.
With the dog. Obviously.
Carlton stepped out beside him, sipping instant coffee from a mug that said "World's Okayest Roommate."
"You're drooling."
"I'm dreaming," Travis whispered. "Of opportunity."
"You don't even like dogs."
"I love free income, Carlton. That girl's walking a money printer."
Carlton blinked. "...What?"
"Dog-walking! It's the perfect side hustle. You get paid to stroll around and pick up poop. I do that already. Just with more existential dread."
Carlton frowned. "You've never even owned a dog."
"Exactly! I'm unbiased. Emotionally detached. It's all profit."
Travis leapt up, energized by sudden, unearned confidence.
"We're starting a business."
Carlton groaned. "Oh God. Is this gonna be like your plant-sitting service?"
"They were mostly alive when I returned them."
"One was cactus soup."
---
Within 24 hours, they had a business name: "Pawffice Professionals: Premium Pet Services."
A tagline: "We walk. We wag. We wow."
And a logo: a clip art dog wearing sunglasses.
Travis created a Craigslist ad using a fake stock photo of him kneeling next to a golden retriever. He didn't own the dog. He didn't own the kneepads. He photoshopped himself in next to it using MS Paint.
The ad promised "exercise, enrichment, and discreet poop handling."
He listed Carlton as the "Senior Canine Fitness Specialist" without telling him.
The next morning, they had five emails. One said "Do you bathe turtles?" (Travis replied "Only on Tuesdays.")
But one was from a woman named Linda in Lincoln Park.
Linda had three corgis. Their names? Butterscotch, Macaroni, and Supreme Commander Tater.
"She's offering $40 per walk," Travis said, holding up his phone like it was the Holy Grail. "And all we have to do is stroll around and not lose any dogs."
Carlton rubbed his face. "We don't even have leashes!"
Travis pointed to a pile of shoelaces he had tied together. "We do now."
Carlton stared. "That's not a leash. That's a cry for help."
---
Linda's house was too nice. The kind of house that had more throw pillows than people. She opened the door in a tracksuit made of something more expensive than Travis's entire bank history.
"These are my babies," she said, releasing the corgis like she was unleashing chaos into the world. "Macaroni gets anxious. Butterscotch bites other dogs. And Tater has a vendetta against bicycles."
Carlton whispered, "This feels like a trap."
Travis nodded. "But it pays $40."
The first block went fine. The corgis waddled. Travis strutted. Carlton flinched at every passing cyclist.
Then a squirrel appeared.
Tater screamed. Not barked. Screamed. A deep, soul-shattering howl of vengeance.
All three dogs bolted.
"Hold the leashes!" Travis shouted.
"I am!" Carlton yelled as the shoelace-leash snapped in half like overcooked spaghetti. "You tied them with double knots! Not even good knots!"
The dogs split in three different directions like furry explosions. Macaroni dove into a bush. Butterscotch ran under a bench and peed on someone's yoga mat. Tater chased a guy on a Lime scooter into traffic.
"This is how we die," Carlton muttered, sprinting after Tater.
---
Somehow—somehow—they wrangled all three dogs back. They bribed Macaroni with peanut butter. Butterscotch was lured with a piece of Carlton's sock. Tater had to be tricked with a decoy bicycle drawn in chalk.
When they returned to Linda's house, Travis had grass in his hair, Carlton had a shoeprint on his chest, and all three corgis looked smug.
Linda opened the door.
"How was it?" she asked.
Travis flashed a thumbs-up. "They're angels."
"Macaroni's covered in peanut butter."
"She's expressive."
"And Tater smells like… chalk?"
"Creative expression."
Linda smiled. "Great. Same time tomorrow?"
Carlton was about to protest. Travis elbowed him.
"Absolutely," he said. "In fact, we offer premium weekly packages."
---
Back at the Apartment
Travis dumped $40 in singles on the kitchen table.
"We made money today."
"We almost got arrested by a park ranger."
"But we didn't. That's profit, baby."
Carlton sat down, exhausted. "You think we can actually do this?"
Travis leaned back, chewing a leftover bagel.
"Carlton, we just conned a millionaire into paying us to get exercise and hang out with cute animals. This isn't a scam. It's the American Dream."
Carlton looked at the dogs on their flyer. "You know this ends with one of us getting mauled, right?"
Travis grinned. "And when that day comes... we raise the rates."