The Boyz Mean Business

Each morning, without fail, I awaken to a golden retriever’s nose close enough to my face that we are sharing the available air. Sometimes both Boyz report for duty. Apparently, waking one man requires a second employee to verify that the first has completed the assignment.

I have tried a gentle tap on the head, feeling around for the snooze button. Neither model appears to have one. Once Captain and Morgan have determined that the day should begin, further sleep becomes something I can remember having enjoyed.

Lying there with a nose against mine, it occurred to me that other people might pay for this.

As the human owned by two golden retrievers, I am presented daily with business opportunities. Most have been difficult to recognize because I am either still asleep or picking them up off the floor. But the alarm service has promise.

With a few strategically installed doggie doors, the Boyz could roam the neighborhood as dependable morning callers, much like the knocker-ups of old. Those gentlemen had to stand outside and tap on windows. The Boyz would bring the service directly to your pillow.

There would be details to work out. Breakfast, for instance. A client who offered breakfast might find the remainder of the route postponed. Morgan would also need time to greet everyone in the house, while Captain conducted a preliminary inspection of the premises. Still, I believe people would appreciate the personal attention.

The next opportunity came to me while surveying the half-chewed objects distributed around the yard.

My mother used to save the final sliver of shower soap, the little remnant that had become too small to accomplish its previous task but remained too much soap to throw away. She squirreled these away until she had enough to melt down and reshape into soap balls.

Nothing was wasted. Whatever fragrances had entered the collection emerged together. I was seventeen before I achieved a bath with a single aroma.

I see no reason the same principle couldn’t apply to the Boyz’ abandoned chewys. Gather the remnants, consolidate the inventory, reshape the product and sell it to other dog owners. Captain and Morgan could oversee quality control, although that might leave me gathering the remnants again.

They already believe in recycling. Something dismissed on Monday can become highly desirable on Thursday, particularly if the other brother has it. I would merely be helping them reach a wider market.

The strongest prospect, however, arrives every afternoon at precisely four.

That is when I usher the Boyz outside so I can vacuum a day’s worth of two shedding littermates. By the time I finish, I have emptied two or three Shark bins of material I have been treating as a nuisance when it may, in fact, be inventory.

Sweaters come to mind. Scarves. Caps. A tasteful blend of Captain’s cream and Morgan’s field red, collected fresh daily. Drapery should be possible by the end of a weekend.

I have been throwing this away.

There may even be a market among people who want a dog but would prefer to avoid the feeding, watering, walking and eventual consequences of feeding and watering. With the right seamstress, or perhaps a sufficiently ambitious knitter, I could offer a full-size golden retriever made entirely from golden retriever.

No taxidermist required. The original dogs would remain available for continued production.

A knitted golden could occupy the preferred spot on the sofa without asking to go outside immediately after you sat down. It could ride quietly in the car, leave a biscuit unattended and maintain its size regardless of how long you had been away.

I haven’t priced any of this yet. There is probably more to starting a business than possessing raw materials, although I have reached the point where raw materials are finding their way into rooms the Boyz haven’t visited.

For now, I empty the last bin and let them back inside. Morgan leans against my leg while Captain settles onto the freshly vacuumed rug.

By morning, I should have enough for sleeves.