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Doggy humor: Almost a millionaire
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Hobo Hudson
By Hobo Hudson. As you all will remember, I predicted some time ago that my new ideas were going to make me a millionaire. I’m not quite there yet, but I think it’s time to give you an update on my two brilliant ideas.
I’m still stunned about the reception my altered jeans have had with teenage girls and young women. Every time I turn on my computer, I see more eBay orders flood the screen. For a while, I was a little nervous because I thought that the young crowd would quit buying due to our severe recession, but instead, they seem to be spending money like there’s no tomorrow.
I’ve hired a full time production manager named Tom the Ripper. He’s a 20-pound tomcat, and his job is to supervise. Every morning, he reviews the day’s orders and meows at my manager at Cat Temps International to send over the number of temps he thinks he’ll need for the day. He also helps out if we get behind with the orders and makes short shrift of alterations. He hangs jeans on a line across the factory floor and just leaps up to snag his claws in the legs. Like the old song goes, something’s gotta give! So far, everything is working out perfectly.
Recently, when Dad and I went to a store, I saw one of my creations. A young woman, about 25 years old, was wearing jeans coming from my latest production line. The jeans had a piece of denim, about 2 inches wide, torn all the way from the pocket to the knee, and the loose piece was just flopping around. I remember very well the day Tom the Ripper created the design. Mom wanted me to cut the loose piece off, but I insisted we leave it hanging because that would become the new style of jeans—and I was right. The young folks bought them as soon as I listed them on eBay.
I’ve finally got all the bugs worked out of Cat Temps International, and it’s doing great. After a few mishaps with the dispatching service, I decided the best way to handle the business is by franchise. Sending the temps on trips to faraway locations to meet customers just didn’t work.
Three of my friends in California, 12, Chappy and Whiskey, worried about their mom’s blood pressure, had asked me to send a cat to them. They wanted the cat to lie in their mom’s lap so their mom could pet it to lower her blood pressure. This works better than any medicine on the market. Since they are dear friends, I naturally tried to oblige, but I sure lost money on the deal. My charge wasn’t enough to even cover the cost of the iodine and bandages I needed after I finally got one of the temps shoved into a box to ship to my friends. To make things worse, the cat never did come back.
My franchise operations in Orlando at the entrance to Disney World and in downtown Atlanta are very successful. Another franchise, managed by a dog during the winter at Key West and during the summer at Hilton Head, also produces results. New startups are operating well in New Orleans in the French Quarter and in San Antonio near the Alamo. I’m trying to keep all my production facilities in the warmer climate states for now because I have to trot around helping with the startups, and I just hate cold weather.
As for my business arrangements at home, I may have to do something about the squirrel employee I hired to entertain my cat employees during their breaks. My peanut bill is getting out of paw. Every time I look out, he’s eating, but he never seems to gain any weight. Between you and me, I can’t tell one squirrel from another. Every time I ask the squirrel if he’s working for me, he swears he is. Maybe I should issue him an I.D., like a badge or something.
In an attempt to ease some of the financial liabilities within my business, I’ve finally found a way to beat the high Florida unemployment taxes. I was barking with a neighborhood dog about my problem. He mentioned that his folks retained a long-standing Florida corporation they hadn’t used in years but have kept active just in case they ever decided to go back into business. He barked they might be willing to sell it for the right amount of money. Dad and I paid them a visit, and during a pleasant chat, they agreed to sell the corporation to me for just a few kibbles plus a little matter of $200,000 in undistributed profits.
After I paid them the few kibbles, they called a director’s meeting and added Mom, Dad and me to the board. Our new board of directors met and elected me president and chairman of the board. I then proposed the corporation lend me $200,000 and I would sign a demand note promising to repay the loan at any time. The moment I got my paws on the money, I paid it to the former owners.
The only problem I encountered was when Dad filed the notice of change with the state of Florida, having entered my age of 8 years on the document. The state office rejected the notice of change and notified us that a president or director had to be at least 18 years old in Florida. I immediately fired a letter back explaining that I’m a dog and my age of 8 is equivalent to 56 in human years.
Eventually, I received another note from the state office saying a dog can’t be a president or director of a company in Florida. There’s that old discrimination thing raising its ugly head again. To get around it, we had to take my name off and substitute Dad’s. Oh well, every dog knows I’m the true owner.
Things were rolling along, and the money was pouring in. Then my bank asked for an updated personal balance sheet. Since Dad handles all this financial stuff for me, I dropped the form on his desk for him to fill out while I fidgeted around in the office. He quickly ran through the standard items: bones, t bonz, bacon strips, cash in bank, etc. and then stopped at the line for stock.
“Hobo, come here and sit,” he said. “We’ve got to guess what your corporation is worth. How much profit do you think you’ll make this year?”
I scratched my ears, looked up at Dad and barked, “Oh, around $125,000.”
Dad quickly began making up what he called a “pro-forma income statement,” all the while muttering something about “figures don’t lie but liars figure.” I don’t know why he was muttering that.
After he finished scribbling and stopped mumbling, he said, “Ok, Hobo, I’ve used your $125,000 gross profit and paid you a salary of $23,000. It will be enough for you to cover the taxes and make a payment on your note to the corporation. That means you’ll have a net corporate profit of around $100,000. A small corporation like yours is probably worth about 10 times earnings.”
He inserted $1,000,000 as the value of my corporation and entered $200,000 under debts. After adding all my assets and deducting my one debt, he wrote $872,000 as my net worth.
Staring at the figure, I yapped, “Wow, I’m almost a millionaire. Just wait until we fill this thing out next year!”
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