What happened before
There was once a wolf, Lobo the King of Currumpaw, who was brilliant and brave. After a struggle involving a vengeful human and the love of his life, he died of a broken heart. This was in the late 19th century. Decades later, in the Great Northlands there was a pack of wolves known as the Digitamlarketers that were uncharacteristically friendly with the natives of the village.
The Great Northlands were known for the light and feathery and hypoallergenic grass that stretched in every direction for miles, standing several feet tall and rippling like water in the cool breeze. There were no roads. Shoes were rarely worn. The humans and wolves thrived off this grass. The humans used the grass to weave giant three-story grass huts, grass cathedrals and grass synagogues with grass stained-glass windows. Their clothes were woven from the silk-like strands of grass and the material was strong and soft, breathable, and didn’t shrink in the wash. The one and only rule for harvesting was that the grass must never be cut below the lower stem where the brilliant green faded to white. A blade cut at that point or lower would never grow back.
The wolves used this grass to hunt. By crouching, they became practically invisible. Humans strolling through the grass, collecting blades for salads or grass steaks would sometimes bump into them. But the friendly wolves never minded this intrusion. They would just whine lightly and wait patiently for a good scratch behind the ears.
Then came the invention of the lawn mowers. The Lesser Southlands, with their screeching gray machinery and smog, came rumbling north, eager to feed their hungry beasts. Villagers and wolves alike hid from the monsters and waited for them to pass, unaware of the destruction and desolation wrought. The friction faded, the hooting halted, the uproar ended, and the screeching stopped. The villagers stepped outside.
Their grass was gone. Mowed down below where the green became white, dead forever. The wolves vanished, having fled from the large chewing creaking machines in the night. The grass houses were squished. The grass cathedrals and synagogues crushed. And the grass stained-glass windows shattered. There was nothing left for the villagers, so distraught and hopeless, they salvaged whatever they could and left south, to join the ranks of the Lesser Southlands.
A howling could be heard for miles that night as the wolves cried for the destruction of their land. But one wolf cried harder than the rest, for she had been forced to abandon more than they. The smallest of her litter, Lobo, had disappeared in the commotion. She searched high and low with a fiery desperation, the kind only a mother could muster, looking for her cub. But the machines approached relentlessly, and with all hope lost, she was forced to flee with the rest of her pack, leaving Lobo behind to be crushed in the onslaught.
The sun rose and lit up the desolate Great Northlands, with white tufts of dead stems standing like tombstones in the plains. The breeze passed through untouched, and no rippling came from its formerly happy passage. The breeze, heavy with sadness, howled across the land. But following the howling came the unexpected. A whimpering.
Lobo would often curl himself in long blades of grass like a blanket when napping. When the machines approached, Lobo hid beneath a makeshift blanket, scared and alone. Because he was so small, he went unscathed beneath the rotating blades as they passed by. His blanket of grass came through unharmed as well. He hid inside the darkness of the blanket all night, too afraid to move.
The sunlight snuck through the cracks of the grass blanket and poked the tiny wolf in the eyes. He rolled, releasing the blanket, and stood. Fifteen blades of grass popped up and stood tall and proud, and alone. Lobo, seeing for the first time the destruction around him, dove inside the tufts and stuck his nose out. He sniffed the air and whimpered. He was alone.
At lunchtime, he nibbled on a blade. As it bent, a tiny seed fell and landed on his paw. Lobo considered it for a moment. Then he formed a plan. There was hope after all. He, Lobo the Digitamlarketer, would restore the Great Northlands to its former beauty and glory, one seed at a time. He dug a hole and planted the seed. If he was able to plant enough seeds and carefully nurture these seeds with his skill and expertise and Adwords campaigns, maybe someday he could restore the Great Northlands, and his pack and his mother would return.
But until then, he knew what he had to do. He made it his mission to plant seeds, and nurture those seeds so they grow into big beautiful businesses blades of grass.