Woofers And Tweeters: I Was a Teenage Pet Psychic Romance, #3

By Mattie Fern Worrix

A closet pet psychic, 14-year-old Rainy Radcliff has yearned her whole life for a place to call home. She thinks she's finally found it. And maybe her first boyfriend, too. But what is cute Damien Clark gonna say when he finds out who's visiting Rainy in her dreams?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mattie Fern Worrix
• Release date: Mar 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393190387

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Rainy

AS MOM PULLED THE FIFTH wheel trailer into the small parking lot I was so excited I wanted to wag my tail and woof just like Jeffy. He immediately started sneezing and flashed pictures of doggie pepperoni sticks onto the white movie screen of my mind.

Looks like this is the place, my mom said, as she braked our old red beater truck to a stop—taking up two spaces to accommodate the fifth wheel.

The outside of the older brick building had a large brown wooden sign painted in big pink letters, Woofers and Tweeters ~ Pet Supplies and Grooming.

Well, Jeffy wouldn’t be too thrilled about the grooming part but a pet supply store is usually filled with an abundance of squeaky toys and treats. And most places carry Pupperoni Stix—his favorite.

Valentine’s Day Sale Going On Now a sign in the front window said next to a twirling mobile of pink and red paw print hearts. And in addition to his favorite treats, Jeffy (aka Mr. Smarty Pants because he’s a border collie and intelligent enough to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company) loves that new line of canine intelligence games called Doggie Einstein.

In other words: Jeffy Heaven.

But, as cool as that is,  the best part is the small building next door to the pet supplies store. A handmade cardboard sign propped up in the window says, Retail Space For Rent. Includes Small Living Quarters.

My heart jumped and tap danced and twirled. I couldn’t help it. Maybe—for the first time ever—my mom and I might finally have a home of our own.

Mr. Clark, the owner, said to just come inside the pet store when we got here, Mom said, as she pulled back the parking brake and killed the engine.

I got out on my side of the truck, making sure Jeffy stayed inside. I hated to leave the warm interior but was excited to go look in the window of the vacant shop. I pulled up the hood of my red sweatshirt and grabbed my black mittens from the pouch. It had snowed last night and the parking lot was still a little icy. 

Do you want to wait out here? Mom asked, as I started to run over to the vacant shop to peek inside.

I stopped mid-run and turned back to her.

Quick, Mom—come here, I said, and waved her over.

C’mon, Rainy, she said. She was wise to me, and rolled her eyes.

Okay, here’s the deal:  My mom is absolutely gorgeous. Freakin’ beautiful. But in a witchy, black magick sorta way. No, she is not a devil worshipper—that’s just silly. She’s not Pagan or Wiccan or even Presbyterian. She likes to dress all in black and she loves all things woo woo. Things like tarot cards and crystals and patchouli candles and numerology and reading tea leaves. 

Plus she has supported us all these years, since I was a baby witch (just kidding), doing tarot readings and selling New Age stuff at psychic fairs. 

I need to soften you a bit, I told her and pulled my headband out of my own long hair. The band is narrow with a row of tiny bright purple cosmos flowers. I handed it to her and she gave me a crabby look before putting it reluctantly into her own hair.

How, by goddess, does this help?

It’s a proven scientific theory, I replied, matter-of-factly. They did a study at some animal shelter somewhere and potential adopters were much more open to giving the pitbulls a chance for two reasons. One, if the dogs were wearing a flower on their collar, I paused for a second. And two, if their toenails were painted. Especially the color pink.

I think you make this stuff up, she retorted, but smiled big and showed me her tiny silver crescent moon tongue ring. 

The thing is, I’d never tell my mom her looks can be intimidating to non-fringy folks because it would only hurt her feelings. The straight as a broom waist-length black hair sure doesn’t help her image. Cats-eye makeup doesn’t help. Black nail polish doesn’t help.  That black cat tattoo on the inside of her wrist doesn’t help. 

Personally, I love the way she looks but, to be honest, she has made little kids shrink back behind their parents out in public.

I just want you to make a good first impression with our, hopefully, soon-to-be new landlord, I whispered. I don’t think she has any idea how badly I want this.

If this works out, I might even be able to get a flippin’ library card from the Mary’s Creek City Library we passed on our way here. My first ever library card. I think I"m more jazzed about that than getting my learner’s permit in a year. 

I’ll use my witchy charm on him. He won’t be able to resist, she teased and pulled a tube of Black Velvet lipstick from her pocket and quickly applied. And if that doesn't work, I’ll turn him into a newt.

I motioned for her to wipe the lipstick from her teeth and then watched as she walked inside the pet supplies store, her long mane of hair flowing behind her. I heard the store buzzer chime.

I giggled at her joke but also cringed a little. I’m used to my mom but other people aren’t always kind. The people who attend psychic fairs are accepting and welcoming of her and the way she is but outside of those places sometimes people give her dirty looks.  I don’t think it really bothers her because most of the time she doesn’t seem to notice. But it bothers me. I find myself getting all worked up and want to say something. Call them out. 

I pushed those unsettling thoughts aside because I was starting to rain on my own parade. I walked up to the front door of the space for lease and held my hands up on either side of my face to peek inside. It was a small place—probably