Persnickety

Grumbler refused to come with us to Mrs. Moore's house. She was offended by the idea of sharing territorial space with Harold, who she considered beneath her in the familiar world. In other words, cats ruled and dogs drooled. 

With Gretchen at my side, I knocked on the door. The storm had blown through, taking it with all the clouds. The sun brightened the blue dome of the sky. I heard birds twittering and smelled the wet earth on the light breeze that tugged on my hair. 

Less than a minute later, April opened the door, her gaze immediately going to the visitor. "Hi. Who are you?"

"Gretchen Meeks," said the woman with her shiny, dimpled smile. "I'm your fairy godmother."

April's face went slack. "Seriously? That's a thing?"

"Apparently," I said. "How's Mrs. Moore? Is she up for visitors?"