“You’re telling me things I already know. What’s this have to do with selling pet food?” Stedfaust asks, thumping his fingers against the table.
“Great question,” I say. “Because they’re having kids much later, if at all, they tend to view their pets as surrogate babies.” I put finger quotes around babies. “Birthday parties for their dogs and shiny new outfits. They spoil their pets in the wildest ways, making cats and dogs king, and kings need luxury. If you want to grab that market by the horns, that’s the image you have to display.”
“I’m not sure that’s our brand, Magnus.” Stedfaust frowns, again looking too much like a pampered bulldog himself.
I shrug. “It’s what the younger market wants, and the market is judge, jury, and executioner.”
My eyes flick to Miss Bristol.
She taps her computer and the slide shifts to a black-and-white image of a five-star dining scene. An English bulldog in a tux sits at a table, lapping up his food from a crystal goblet.
The words “Woof Meow Chow” appear in the background in pearly white letters.
Mr. Stedfaust looks down at his phone next to him and slides a lazy finger across the screen.
Dammit.
Something’s gone terribly wrong.
He’s becoming disengaged, and I have to wrestle his attention back where it belongs. Letting clients see how their makeover image clinches any sale.
“So—” I slap my hand against the table. Everyone looks up, Stedfaust included, blinking. I point to the pup in the tux. “This adorable, classy pooch screams—or barks, if you will—upscale dog food. Something every dog mom and dad can be proud of feeding their baby.”
At this point, I’m used to questions, concerns that help me pick through their objections or make alterations if needed.
Right now, I’m faced with silence.
Shit.
This is the textbook definition of a crash and burn. It’s been years since I’ve been in a pitch meeting like this with everything misfiring.
I’m going to have to pull the feedback out of them with pliers.
“What do you think, gentlemen? This is only the first concept, of course, and we have plenty of similar designs for cats and dogs. Hit me.”
“It was nice work,” one of the younger guys says slowly. “We have some other things we still have to look at, but we’ll be in touch.”
Damn it all.
I’ve been in this business long enough to know that translates to no chance in hell.
Trouble is, he’s not giving me anything I can work with, refusing to throw me a bone so I can swing this back around.
“Mr. Stedfaust, any questions?” Once, he was friends with my dad. I’ve known him my whole life, ever since they walked in here for their first campaign under my father, back when their only flavors were tuna or beef.
Come on. Give me a clue where things went wrong.
He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, a stiff barrel of a man.
“Well, technically speaking, your work is great, as always. Very clean, maybe even sparkling. However...there’s no polite way to say this, but you bring me down here for a meeting and tell me I’m looking for millennials—hell, son. I told your last girl that. And no damn millennial will ever be sold by this lifeless concept.”
“Lifeless concept,” I repeat, glaring at Hugo.
He looks terrified behind his glasses.
He should be.
This was his baby.
I’d rejected the first and second round of concepts, told them to dress it up, but he insisted 'classy' was the best mood for these ads with every revision.
If we lose this account, it could cause cuts, and it’s going to be on his hands if I can’t fix his mistakes.
Hugo holds a hand up in apology, looking from me to Stedfaust. “I admit the designs I sent over were a bit more...experimental than usual. It was a risk, sure, but I thought it might be an interesting twist.”
“Experimental? They’re black and white and dead.” Stedfaust sighs. “The designs look more like a bad art project for a college class than an ad campaign. My grandson could’ve done a better job, and he’s in elementary school. Our brand is fun, trusted, and safe for every animal. This comes across as amateurish at best.”
Fucking ouch.
I try not to wince. Hugo looks destroyed, his normally jolly face transformed into a hangdog look. The dressing down from our client is harsher than anything I’d deliver.
“I...I’d be happy to send you some updated concepts ASAP. Fun, sir, that I can do!” Hugo’s voice has a pleading tone which is only going to make matters worse.
Nobody likes desperation.
Stedfaust begins to answer. I don’t pay attention to his words.
Instead, I glance at the cat food tins Sabrina fetched from my office. They’ve been placed beside the projector as part of the setup. She managed to get three cans, all with a pop top.
Hell. I didn’t think I’d actually have to break out Plan B, but desperate times, desperate measures, you know the rest.