Pip’s Dream of the Yummiest Dog Treats Ever

Pip’s sneakers squeaked so loud on the kitchen linoleum that Muffin, his fluffy 7-month-old golden retriever, skidded around the corner to catch up, her pink nylon collar jingling with every bouncy step. “Mom! Mom! I did it! I won first place at the whole school science fair!” he yelled, holding a shiny blue trophy above his head so hard his arm wobbled. The trophy had a golden paw print glued to the top, and next to it, he held a crumpled paper bag full of dog bone-shaped cookie cutters and a $50 gift card to the local pet supply store. “Slow down, tornado! Let me see that!” Mom laughed, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. She was making chocolate chip cookies for the neighborhood book club that night, and the sweet smell of melting butter and vanilla filled the whole house. She knelt down to hug Pip, then scratched Muffin behind the ears, making the puppy’s tail thump so hard against the cabinet that a jar of cookie sheets rattled. Pip’s science fair win had started three months earlier, when Muffin had eaten a store-bought dog treat and spent all night vomiting. The vet had said Muffin had a peanut allergy, and Pip had cried for an hour, convinced he’d never get to give his favorite puppy a treat again. That weekend, he’d dragged a step stool over to the kitchen counter, pulled out every cookbook Mom owned, and started mixing batches of peanut-free biscuits. The first 10 tries were disasters: one batch was so hard you could break a window with it, another was so crumbly it turned to dust when you touched it, and on the third try, Muffin had jumped up onto the counter and eaten half the dough before Pip could put it in the oven. But the 11th batch was perfect: crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside, and Muffin had wagged her tail so hard she knocked over a kitchen chair when she ate her first one. “Wait till I tell Bean!” Pip said, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. Bean was the beagle who lived next door, and he was allergic to peanuts too. Pip had been giving Bean secret treats from his test batches for weeks, and Bean’s owner had said Bean hadn’t stopped wagging his tail for three days after eating one. Mom smiled, flipping open the tattered spiral notebook she used for grocery lists and book club notes. “That’s such a cool project, Pip. I’m so proud of you for making something that helps dogs feel better. But you said you want to turn this into a real business, right? So every dog with food allergies can get these treats?” Pip nodded so fast his messy brown hair flopped into his eyes. “Exactly! I want to call it Pip’s Pawsome Treats! I can make them in different shapes: bones, paws, stars, even little tennis balls for dogs who love fetch! I can sell them at the pet store, and at the farmers market on weekends, and even deliver them to people’s houses!” “That’s an amazing goal,” Mom said, tapping her pencil against the blank page of the notebook. “But to start a business, you need something called startup money. That’s the cash you need to buy all the things you’ll need to make and sell your treats, before you’ve sold any yet.” Pip tilted his head, confused. “But I have my science fair prize money! That’s $50, right? That’s enough, isn’t it?” Mom shook her head, and started writing a list on the notebook page, each item with a little dog paw print doodled next to it. “Let’s add it up,” she said. “First, you need to buy ingredients: oats, pumpkin puree, sunflower seed butter, honey. If you

Pip’s sneakers squeaked so loud on the kitchen linoleum that Muffin, his fluffy 7-month-old golden retriever, skidded around the corner to catch up, her pink nylon collar jingling with every bouncy step. “Mom! Mom! I did it! I won first place at the whole school science fair!” he yelled, holding a shiny blue trophy above his head so hard his arm wobbled. The trophy had a golden paw print glued to the top, and next to it, he held a crumpled paper bag full of dog bone-shaped cookie cutters and a $50 gift card to the local pet supply store. “Slow down, tornado! Let me see that!” Mom laughed, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. She was making chocolate chip cookies for the neighborhood book club that night, and the sweet smell of melting butter and vanilla filled the whole house. She knelt down to hug Pip, then scratched Muffin behind the ears, making the puppy’s tail thump so hard against the cabinet that a jar of cookie sheets rattled. [ILLUSTRATION: Colorful full-page spread of Pip mid-jump in the kitchen, Muffin leaping up to lick his cheek, the blue trophy glinting in his raised hand, cookie cutters spilling out of the paper bag onto the counter next to Mom’s mixing bowl] Pip’s science fair win had started three months earlier, when Muffin had eaten a store-bought dog treat and spent all night vomiting. The vet had said Muffin had a peanut allergy, and Pip had cried for an hour, convinced he’d never get to give his favorite puppy a treat again. That weekend, he’d dragged a step stool over to the kitchen counter, pulled out every cookbook Mom owned, and started mixing batches of peanut-free biscuits. The first 10 tries were disasters: one batch was so hard you could break a window with it, another was so crumbly it turned to dust when you touched it, and on the third try, Muffin had jumped up onto the counter and eaten half the dough before Pip could put it in the oven. But the 11th batch was perfect: crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside, and Muffin had wagged her tail so hard she knocked over a kitchen chair when she ate her first one. “Wait till I tell Bean!” Pip said, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. Bean was the beagle who lived next door, and he was allergic to peanuts too. Pip had been giving Bean secret treats from his test batches for weeks, and Bean’s owner had said Bean hadn’t stopped wagging his tail for three days after eating one. Mom smiled, flipping open the tattered spiral notebook she used for grocery lists and book club notes. “That’s such a cool project, Pip. I’m so proud of you for making something that helps dogs feel better. But you said you want to turn this into a real business, right? So every dog with food allergies can get these treats?” Pip nodded so fast his messy brown hair flopped into his eyes. “Exactly! I want to call it Pip’s Pawsome Treats! I can make them in different flavors: pumpkin oat, banana sunflower butter, apple cinnamon! I can cut them into different shapes: bones, paws, stars, even little tennis balls for dogs who love fetch! I can sell them at the pet store, and at the farmers market on weekends, and even deliver them to people’s houses!” “That’s an amazing goal,” Mom said, tapping her pencil against the blank page of the notebook. “But to start a business, you need something called startup money. That’s the cash you need to buy all the things you’ll need to make and sell your treats, before you’ve sold any yet.” Pip tilted his head, confused. “But I have my science fair prize money! That’s $50, right? That’s enough, isn’t it?” Mom shook her head, and started writing a list on the notebook page, each item with a little dog paw print doodled next to it. “Let’s add it up,” she said. “First, you need to buy ingredients: oats, pumpkin puree, sunflower seed butter, honey. If you want to make 100 bags of treats to start, that’s $15 right there. Then, you can’t make that many batches in our tiny kitchen oven, right? I need it for book club cookies and your birthday cakes, so you’d need to rent time at a shared commercial kitchen down the street. That’s $20 an hour, and you’d need 4 hours a week to make enough treats, so that’s $80 a month just for space. Then you need labels: you want people to know the treats are peanut-free, right? So you need custom labels with your logo, that’s $30 for 100 of them, plus $15 for the little cellophane bags to put the treats in so they stay fresh. Oh, and the city requires a $25 food permit to sell snacks, so you don’t get in trouble.” S