It was supposed to be a quiet Tuesday.
Carlton was halfway through a bagel, Travis was editing a video titled "My Dog Is Not a Messianic Figure, But She Is Very Good at Hide-and-Seek", and Buttermilk was trying to figure out how to open a jar of peanut butter using only her snout and a little bit of sheer will.
That's when the doorbell rang.
Standing outside was a man in a cape. Not a costume-cape. A velvet, embroidered, full-length regal cape with gold tassels and tiny bells that jingled every time he moved. His shoes were Birkenstocks. His hair glowed slightly in the sun.
"Hello," he said, bowing deeply. "I am Elron Pupsmith. I represent the Lunar Chapter of the Barka."
Travis dropped his phone.
Carlton whispered, "Why are there chapters?"
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The Lunar Barka
Apparently, after the Great Disbanding, a small but intense sect of Buttermilk followers relocated to a desert in New Mexico, where they practiced "Moon Barking" and wore reflective vests as ceremonial garb. They believed Buttermilk's sneeze in Chapter 20 wasn't just a biological event—it was a celestial signal.
And they had questions.
"We believe the sneeze aligned perfectly with the lunar eclipse," said Elron. "We must know: was it intentional?"
Travis blinked. "She had allergies. She sneezes every time someone microwaves broccoli."
Elron looked devastated. "You mean… it wasn't a divine sneeze?"
"No," Carlton said, gesturing to Buttermilk, who was rolling on her back and trying to bite her own tail. "She also believes shadows are edible. She's not divine. She's just dramatic."
Elron stared at Buttermilk for a long moment. Then nodded solemnly. "So be it. We shall return to the sands. But first… a gift."
He pulled out a velvet pouch and placed it in Travis's hands.
Inside: a handmade amulet. Shaped like Buttermilk's face. Made of pressed chia seeds and dog hair.
Carlton screamed and threw it out the window.
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The Audit
Meanwhile, an unexpected email arrived.
Subject: INFLUENCER TAX AUDIT – IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUIRED
Apparently, the IRS—or more accurately, a very confused department within it—was trying to understand why they had recorded charitable donations listed under "chew toy-based enlightenment programs."
Carlton panicked. Travis wept.
"But that money went to build a community dog park!" Travis protested.
"With a statue of Buttermilk in the middle!" Carlton snapped. "That counts as a religious monument, Travis!"
They hired a lawyer. The lawyer brought a therapy llama.
The llama had opinions.
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The Interview
Later that week, the crew was invited to appear on a morning show: "Wake Up With Wiggles!"
The host, Sunny Glimm, was an overly peppy woman with a seven-foot-tall bouffant and a deep distrust of hairless cats.
"So!" she chirped, smiling into the camera. "You started a cult. How does that feel?"
Carlton looked ready to leap off the couch. Travis nodded calmly.
"We didn't mean to. It just… happened. Like mold on old cheese. Or feelings at a middle school dance."
"Buttermilk," Sunny said, turning to the dog perched on a satin cushion. "How do you feel?"
Buttermilk sneezed. Again.
Half the live audience fainted. The other half started humming.
Carlton stood up and shouted, "It's allergies! She's not barking the secrets of the universe, she just hates dust!"
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An Attempt at Normal
After the show, they tried to rebrand again.
No more affirmations. No more spiritual retreats. Just cute dog videos and tasteful merch.
The new tagline?
"Buttermilk: Just a Dog. A Very Good One."
They filmed a cooking series where Buttermilk "judged" dog-friendly recipes. They made plushies. They sponsored a squirrel rescue charity.
The Lunar Barka slowly faded into the digital distance.
Until one night, Carlton caught Travis sketching designs for a new t-shirt.
It said:
"Sneezed On By the Divine."
Carlton stared. Travis smiled sheepishly.
Buttermilk burped. The room fell silent.
"…Maybe just one limited drop?" Carlton whispered.
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