It was a Tuesday, the kind of Tuesday where the world felt like lukewarm soup: bland, slightly off, and probably past its expiration date.
Travis sat on the couch in sweatpants that had once been beige but now leaned aggressively toward "cappuccino disaster." His laptop sat open on his lap, untouched for two hours. Instead, he stared at a paused YouTube video titled "How to Tell if You're in an Existential Crisis (With Puppets)."
Carlton walked in holding a French press and a half-eaten cruller. "I think I miss the cult."
Travis blinked slowly. "You mean the literal cult that tried to install Buttermilk as a living embodiment of serenity and renamed our apartment 'The Temple of Paw'?"
Carlton sipped. "Yeah, that one. It had structure. Schedule. Free fruit."
Outside, someone honked. Not a car horn — just a guy on a unicycle yelling "Honk!" while juggling baguettes. City life had returned.
Meatloaf barked once from under a weighted blanket. Buttermilk lay sprawled across a yoga mat, belly-up, snoring like a tiny Harley-Davidson.
"I tried to go viral yesterday," Travis said, flipping his laptop around. "Posted a video of Buttermilk doing the cinnamon challenge. It got four likes. One of them was my mom."
Carlton plopped down beside him. "We flew too close to the sun. And the sun had fur and a modest Instagram following."
Silence. Buttermilk let out a single hiccup. The scent of leftover incense still clung to the rug. No matter how many times they vacuumed, the vibe was off. Like the apartment still expected someone to chant "awoooooo" before breakfast.
"I think we're in post-cult depression," Carlton said solemnly.
"Is that a real thing?"
"It is now. I Googled it. There's a subreddit."
They sat in silence for another minute.
"Should we... do something normal today?" Travis asked. "Like laundry?"
Carlton flinched. "Too soon."
---
Attempt #1: Grocery Store Normalcy
They decided to go to Trader Joe's.
It was a bold move. Carlton wore jeans, which he claimed were "emotional armor." Travis wore sunglasses indoors. Not because he was famous — because he was terrified of running into another Barka member.
The moment they walked through the sliding doors, it hit them. The silence. No chanting. No dog bowls full of chia seeds. Just smooth jazz and the occasional beep of a register.
Carlton grabbed a basket. "Alright. What do normal people buy?"
Travis scanned the aisles. "Lettuce? Lentils? Those peanut butter cups everyone talks about?"
They made it halfway through produce before someone gasped. A woman dropped her basket of kale.
"It's her," she whispered. "The Blessed Sniffer."
Buttermilk, tucked in her sling carrier, blinked.
"Nope," Travis whispered. "Abort mission."
They left with nothing but a bag of frozen hash browns and a renewed sense of paranoia.
---
Attempt #2: Brunch
Next up was brunch. Simple. Safe. Millennial-coded.
They picked a spot with outdoor seating and a menu that used words like "artisan" and "reimagined." Carlton ordered something called an Avocado Cloud. Travis ordered iced coffee the size of his head.
Ten minutes into their meal, the waiter approached nervously. "Sorry to bother you, but... is this seat taken?" He pointed at Buttermilk's cushion.
Travis nodded. "It's taken. By the dog."
The waiter bowed slightly. "Of course. I meant no disrespect."
He backed away and whispered something to the hostess. A minute later, three staff members emerged from the kitchen carrying a tiny fruit parfait with a bone-shaped cookie on top.
"For the Enlightened One," the hostess said.
Carlton stared at Travis. "This is never going away, is it?"
Travis stirred his coffee. "We created a deity and fed her turkey bacon. Now we live in her shadow."
---
Attempt #3: Therapy
Carlton scheduled a group therapy session.
The therapist, Dr. Ramirez, had kind eyes and an office full of houseplants and stress balls. They sat in a semi-circle: Travis, Carlton, Buttermilk on a beanbag, and a woman named Dina who just really hated her roommate's pet iguana.
Carlton went first. "We accidentally started a spiritual movement based on our dog. Now we're trying to reclaim our identities. Also, our lease might be cursed."
Dr. Ramirez nodded like this was the fourth time she'd heard that today.
Travis added, "I still get DMs asking if Buttermilk will bless their wedding. One guy wanted her to officiate."
Dina muttered, "At least your dog doesn't stare into your soul like a lizard that's seen death."
Buttermilk yawned. Carlton misted her with lavender spray.
Dr. Ramirez smiled warmly. "You're grieving. Not a loss of a person, but of stability. Identity. Perhaps... anonymity."
Travis raised a hand. "Can dogs grieve their own cult?"
Dr. Ramirez looked at Buttermilk. "She seems... remarkably well-adjusted."
At that exact moment, Buttermilk let out a tiny, philosophical burp.
---
Home Again
That night, the apartment was quiet. No chanting. No flower petals. No deliveries of handmade rope toys inscribed with Sanskrit.
Carlton sat on the couch, brushing Buttermilk's fur. Travis stared at a candle, unsure whether to light it or stage an intervention.
"I think we're healing," Carlton said.
Travis nodded. "Yeah. One frozen hash brown at a time."
Outside, the city moved on. Inside, the cult was gone. But Buttermilk remained: fluffier than ever, occasionally gassy, and just unaware enough to keep the world turning.
Carlton raised a mug. "To peace, pancakes, and never starting a religion again."
Buttermilk sneezed. They took that as a yes.