I’m a woman on the verge because two seven-year-old cats rule my home, Paco, the half-Siamese below, and Teika in the second photo. In addition, my assertive move to combat this fiasco was to add four kittens to shift the power balance, to infuse some clear thinking on the subject. More cats will shift the impasse when the house votes on its grocery list each month. Less power to the presiding queens!
I’m a woman on the verge because I’m going to let that feline six-pack thread its way through my whole world. I will spend much of my day exhausted while chasing down their catnip toys, and untying the maze of yarn they dragged around and thru every chair and table leg, and extended to include three lamps and even my ankles. Frustrating. Still, if those beasts are out of my sight for two minutes, I will moan and wonder, “Just how DID the criminal get in and why would he or she steal my growing family?”
I’m a woman on the verge because, usually by that point, it would be snack time and I would shake a little catnip on my egg. This is to feign acceptance of my kids’ palate–who pay no rent, mind you–and to research the power of this trending green and vice, which sends hundreds to CatNippers Anonymous each year. Soon AETV will air its first show with a feline-trained therapist. Cheers, my fellow interventionists. We are all worthy trailblazers.
I’m a woman on the verge because I am a word lover. I am a writer who is enamored with language, yet I condemned myself to a persistent headache by never reacquainting myself with the word ‘assertive.’ It jumped at me yesterday when I fell on it courtesy of my obsolete Webster’s fifteen pound dictionary. I landed on the ‘a’ page and my right elbow was the compass guiding me. I read the definition aloud and my fur companions chortled at me. Loudly. I must say that the lack of respect in today’s pets is so disconcerting. Still, I must forge ahead to fulfill my journey.
I’m a woman on the verge because, since making mistakes like bathing my sweeties together, I’m fighting for any scrap of dignity and attention they throw at me. Wha-at? Only two bits of kibble? I’ll take it. I’ve been running on fumes for so many years that even a raised eyebrow is well worth it. You’re right. I don’t like liver and chicken delight. Never did. Wait. I don’t like catnip either.
I’m a woman on the verge because I never need the absolute certainty of things to make me act. When I’m busy hoovering up all that hair and scooping litter, I think and do whatever strikes my fancy without apology. This rule stands even if the object of my intrigue is a box of Meow Mix for the queens’ amuse bouche du jour. That is, unless I am trying to re-assume control of the bridge, so to speak. Okay. Okay. Fancy Feast it is then.
