Small Business Strategy: 20 Foundations Every Owner Should Know

The printer had pegged next year’s calendars on a line across the shop, and Doctor Owl wanted the plainest one there was.

Forty calendars swayed on the line, each open to the first month of the coming year: paintings of the ridge, a different bird for every month, which he examined with professional suspicion, a recipe on every page, a proverb on every day.

“I want twelve months,” said Doctor Owl, “and a square for each day, and nothing else.”

“Nothing else?” said the printer. She was a grey rabbit with ink to her elbows.

“No ridge. No birds. No wisdom. Especially no wisdom. I have to supply my own.”

She went into the back to look. While she looked, he walked the length of the line, and at the end of it, by the press, he found a stack of calendars already wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Each had a slip tucked under the string, and each slip said FOREST TRAILS and the name of a tour.

Ridge Sunrise. Ferry Dawn. Mill Bridge. Dry Wash Ride. Creek Walk. Skating. He counted. There were fourteen.

“The mayor’s,” said the printer, coming back with a plain grey calendar in her paws. “One for every tour. He likes each guide to have their own.” She set the grey one on the counter. “He asked me to leave room for more.”

“Room,” said Doctor Owl.

“Blank ones. He said he might need another two by spring.” She tied off his string. “He always needs another two by spring.”

The bell over the door went before he could answer, and Colt had come in at a canter. He had snow on his mane and a booking slip in his teeth, and he took the slip out and beamed at the room.

“Doc! Good, you’re here, I’ll only be a minute.” He turned to the printer. “Fifteen. I need a fifteenth. Library history walks, Thursdays, starting in the new year. The librarian asked me on the steps this morning.” He pawed the floor, once, the way he did when he was pleased with himself. “Just a bit more horsepower.”

“You said that about the skating,” said the printer.

“And the skating’s full!”

Doctor Owl picked up his plain grey calendar and tucked it under his wing. He looked at the stack of fourteen, and at the fifteenth slip in the printer’s paw, and at the horse, who had already turned to go and was explaining to the doorframe that he would send Greta for them on Friday.

“Colt,” said Doctor Owl. “Have you a quarter of an hour?”

“For you, Doc? Always.” Colt checked the clock over the press. “Well. Ten minutes. I’ve got the creek walk at noon.”

The Forest Trails office was over the stable at the end of the square, and it smelled of hay and wet wool and the stove. Greta had the booking board on the wall, the one she had built when the tours were overbooked and nobody knew who was where. Every line on it was full, every day of the week, fourteen tours across and seven days down, chalked in her firm square hand.

“Every tour, every week,” said Colt, and his whole chest went up with it. “Full.”

Greta, at the desk, said nothing. She was a large grey goose with a pencil tucked into her wing feathers and a ledger at her elbow, and she had stopped saying things to Colt about the board some time in the autumn.

“And how is the year?” said Doctor Owl.

“Best year we’ve had,” said Colt.

Greta made a small noise in her throat.

“Greta,” said Doctor Owl. “May I see the year?”

She opened the ledger without a word and turned it round on the desk, and put one wing tip on the bottom of two columns.

Last year. Nine tours. Coins in: 4,800. Coins out: 4,200. Kept: 600.

This year. Fourteen tours. Coins in: 6,000. Coins out: 5,400. Kept: 600.

Colt looked at it over the owl’s shoulder.

“That’s the same,” he said.

“It is the same,” said Greta.