Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Right,” I tell Grace, my brain filling in the parts of the conversation where I zoned out. “If they’re ready, bring the dogs in. We’re not getting anywhere if they don’t like it.”
“Coming right up!” She heads for the door to the back room, and I lean against the chrome table.
“Bad date still got you down?” Luis asks dryly.
I shoot him a dirty look.
“You can always come back another day,” he adds.
“No. We have to see if this works.”
Goddamn, I hope it does.
“The sooner we can check off our formula, the faster it goes into production.”
He nods, looking unconvinced. He has a sixth sense for a hell of a lot more than just driving and organizing my life. Somehow, he always knows when I’m bullshitting.
Although this time, I’m hopeful. We’re teetering on the edge of a breakthrough.
Like Grace, though, I’m not sold on the heirloom grains being our missing piece.
But before I can mull over that too long, the door opens and three happy dogs pile in. They’re all golden retrievers with enormous appetites. If this works, we’ll extend our taste trials to some other breeds.
After the dogs sniff my hand and settle in, they cautiously eye the bowls placed down for them.
There are three small bowls for each dog in separate wooden holders. Two of the three bowls contain food from established organic brands, and the last is ours, arranged for each dog in a different order.
I’m breathless, watching their mouths go to work.
The first dog is a machine, wolfing down two bowls—until he’s left with the third. He slows down and sniffs forever before taking a bite.
Fucking great. I have a nasty suspicion it’s ours, even if I can’t see the markings well from here with the dogs in the way.
The other two retrievers eat slower, stopping when there’s one bowl left for them. Their tails wave slowly, like they’re unsure but happy because it’s food.
Dogs. Gotta love their simple emotions.
Despite everything, I smile.
But that smile slides right off my face when the two uncertain dogs stop eating after two bites and walk away with the last bowl half full. Meanwhile, the big girl who scoffed down all her food starts hacking.
Shit.
Swallowing a growl, I drag a hand through my hair. “Since when are dogs such connoisseurs?”
“Since they were born to eat the same stuff twice a day.” Grace smiles kindly.
“It’s the protein content, isn’t it? Still too low, and it saps the flavor. Possibly makes it too dry too.” I walk over to the hacking dog, now licking her chops, and gently pat her back. “Sorry, girl. You’ll get some chicken treats for your trouble when they take you back.”
“Yes, well, it might add flavor, but it would add to the cost. I’m sure you know,” Grace says with a sigh. “I’m not sure there’ll ever be an easy way around adding more protein to make it more appetizing, Mr. Pruitt. And that’s bad news for the cost analysis and your pricing targets.”
Dammit, she’s right.
I feel like I’d have an easier time solving the world energy crisis than inventing a dog food formula that’s tasty, cheap, and healthy. When I got into this game, I didn’t think I’d need superintelligence to solve it.
Then again, that’s why there’s the gap in a very crowded market. No one else has figured this out.
“Okay,” I say. “As always, thank you for your time.”
“We’ll keep at it, Mr. Pruitt. I’ll touch base with the nutrition team again, of course. That’s what you pay us for.”
“I know you will. Thank you, Grace.” I give her a quick wave as she leads the dogs out, then Luis and I head back to the parking lot.
“That went well, man. I thought that poor dog was about to barf on your shoes,” Luis says with a laugh.
“Noted. Add an interview for a new assistant to my schedule,” I throw back.
He laughs harder. “What will you tell your folks about how it’s really going? Or do you want me to help cover?”
“They’ll ask, but you can keep yourself out of the fire this time, Luis.”
Dad always demands updates.
I hate that he has good reason, because I’m leaning on his farms.
Still, that’s not why the man is a bulldog, demanding to hear about the latest tests and scowling I told you so, you damn idiot without uttering a word.
Sometimes he erupts, threatening to send me packing as much as he’s threatening his damaged heart. He swears it’s a good business lesson or some shit, but I know it’s all petty outrage.
He also knows he needs me to give up on this gig on my own, without them pushing. Then I can settle into being the full-time, pristine face of Pruitt Ag with two kids for background and a wife I can’t stand in between sunset cruises on the yacht.