It is a cold, wintry night at the pub. Snow blankets everything in sight. Somewhere in the little glade, a gecko freezes stiff and drops out of the tree it is climbing. Inside the pub, though, it’s lively and bright. Sprinkles’ hindquarters bounce to the jaunty music, while Hugo—at his customary bar stool nearest the door—taps one paw to the beat. Heddy’s heads, all four of them, weave back and…

It’s the one day a month Sprinkles Mystic Pub goes dark: Inventory Day.The blue neon sign — usually buzzing like a caffeinated beetle — sits unlit, a dull outline against the window. A crooked placard hangs on the front door, the word CLOSED scrawled across it with the energy of someone who meant it. Inside, the pub is dim and still, save for Lionel Richie crooning Hello softly from the jukebox…