Page 133 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Excellent. That will balance out the one-star review we got that says 'the sun on the ranch came up too early.'"
His mouth drops open.
"Sir Clucks is getting predictable. Pretty soon, guests are going to expect him to show up," Asher says.
"Maybe we should put him on a schedule," Gavin suggests. "Rooster attacks at ten, noon, and four."
"But does that defeat the purpose of the authentic ranch experience?"
"Nothing about this place is authentic anymore," Trent points out. "We've got a celebrity chicken with his own social media following."
"Don't forget the color-coded feed bins," Gavin adds.
"And the guest satisfaction surveys," Asher says, gesturing at the papers in my lap.
"And the fact that we're seriously discussing goat yoga," I finish.
"Well, when you put it like that," Gavin says, "we've come a long way from a simple working ranch."
"We've come a long way from broke," Trent corrects. "Everything else is just details."
"Profitable details," I point out.
"The best kind."
Later that night,as we're all getting ready for bed, I'm brushing my teeth when Gavin appears in the bathroom doorway with a towel around his waist and that grin that means trouble.
"So, about that goat yoga idea?—"
"I don't know, Gavin," I say around my toothbrush.
"Hear me out. What if we called it 'Barnyard Zen'?"
"Well..."
Asher pushes past him, already in pajama pants. "Gav, goats are a terrible idea. But what about llama trekking?"
I spit out toothpaste. "Llama trekking?"
"Think about it. Llamas are trendy. Very Instagram-worthy. And they're pack animals, so we could do overnight camping experiences."
"Where exactly are we getting these llamas?" Trent asks from the bedroom.
"Same place we'd get the goats," Asher calls back. "The internet."
"We are not buying livestock off the internet," I say firmly.
"Why not? That's how we got half our current guests."
"Guests are different from livestock."
"Are they though?" Gavin asks. "Both require feeding, both need constant supervision, both leave messes for us to clean up."
"Guests pay us. Llamas cost money."
"Guests also complain that the sun comes up too early and ask where the nearest Starbucks is," Trent points out. "Llamas don't do that."
"Llamas spit," I remind them.
