The sun rose over Canine Cay like a golden retriever bounding into a kiddie pool—loud, enthusiastic, and blindingly cheerful. Carlton awoke to the sound of steel drums playing a reggae version of "Who Let the Dogs Out," which, under normal circumstances, might have induced immediate panic. But today, it felt oddly appropriate.
"Travis," Carlton mumbled, brushing sand off his cheek. "Why does it sound like Jimmy Buffet is doing a dog-themed concert outside our hut?"
Travis poked his head out from under a pile of promotional tote bags. "Because he is. Or at least a guy who calls himself Jimmy Paw-fet. He brought a parrot that barks."
Carlton blinked. "Of course he did."
Outside, the island had transformed overnight. What was once a sleepy influencer retreat had become a full-blown dog festival. Banners fluttered in the wind: Festival of Fur and Foam—A Celebration of Buttermilk's Influence on Paw-sitive Culture!
There were vendor booths, foam machines, makeshift agility courses, and a stage where a poodle in sunglasses was DJing. Someone had carved a 12-foot sand sculpture of Buttermilk riding a surfboard, complete with tiny carved seagulls in awe around her.
"Do we—do we authorize this?" Carlton asked, baffled.
Travis shrugged. "Does anyone really authorize joy?"
Buttermilk strutted past in a sequined cape, trailed by Meatloaf, who had somehow acquired a lei and a conch shell. A group of corgis in Hawaiian shirts formed a dance circle nearby.
"I think we've lost control again," Carlton muttered.
"Shhh," Travis whispered. "Let the island speak."
---
The Coconut Council
Later that morning, they were summoned to a meeting by the so-called Coconut Council: five eccentric island locals who had declared themselves guardians of "vibe integrity."
The leader, a wiry woman named Mango Wanda, wore a necklace made entirely of dog tags and had a tattoo of a pawprint on her left cheek.
"We love the energy, boys," she said, sipping something from a hollowed-out coconut. "But the spirit of Canine Cay is fragile. One bad Yelp review and it collapses like a poorly stacked chew toy pyramid."
Travis nodded solemnly. "We respect the vibe."
Carlton added, "We'd also like to apologize for the incident with the inflatable dachshund parade. We didn't know it would launch into the sea."
"No hard feelings," Mango Wanda said. "The dolphins enjoyed it. Just... remember: balance. For every conga line, there must be a meditative bark."
They bowed.
---
The Flufflympics
As part of the festival, someone had organized an impromptu competition dubbed the Flufflympics. Events included:
Synchronized tail wagging
Treat-catching duels
The Four-Pawed Relay (no leashes allowed)
Buttermilk was entered in every category. Not by Travis or Carlton—she simply wandered into each event, was immediately cheered as the favorite, and somehow won by doing the canine equivalent of shrugging.
In the relay, she trotted lazily to the finish line, paused to sniff a butterfly, and still won because the other dogs got distracted by a rogue hot dog cart.
Carlton watched from the sidelines, eating a fish taco and shaking his head. "She's a chaos deity."
Travis grinned. "A cute one, though."
---
The Squirrel Summit
That afternoon, Buttermilk held what became known as the Squirrel Summit. She barked three times under the ancient banyan tree, and suddenly every dog on the island gathered around her, tails still, ears perked.
She growled once. Then sat.
Every dog sat.
Travis whispered, "Is this a military formation?"
Carlton filmed it on his phone. "This video's going to crash the server."
Buttermilk stood, stared at a coconut, and gave a single sharp bark.
A squirrel—somehow imported for the event—bolted out of the foliage, and the entire canine army lost its collective mind.
It was glorious.
---
Nightfall Revelations
As the sun set, tiki torches lit the shore, and a luau band covered pop songs with ukuleles and howls. Travis and Carlton sat in lounge chairs, sipping mocktails.
Carlton said, "Do you think we're making the world better? Or just weirder?"
Travis pondered. "Can't it be both?"
Buttermilk leapt onto Travis's lap, nestled in, and snored. The sound was picked up by the stage mic and echoed across the beach. The crowd cheered.
Meatloaf, drunk on goat milk, tried to crowd surf.
Carlton caught him and whispered, "Okay. Maybe we're not saving the world. But we're making it laugh."
And as Buttermilk let out a blissful fart, someone shouted, "Sacred wind blessing!"
The night erupted in fireworks.
---