Previously posted on September 7, 2011
I’m a woman on the verge because two seven-year-old cats rule my home. In addition, my assertive move to combat this fiasco is to get four fluffy kitten wonders to help shift the power balance, to infuse some clear reasoning on the subject. A few more furry souls to consider in house-rule-voting should break the impasse between the two 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, albeit quiet, world. I will spend much of my day chasing down their catnip toys and unravelling the ball of yarn and hair they dragged through every chair and table leg, and around three lamps and even my ankles. 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 Maine coon family?”
I’m a woman on the verge because usually by that point, it would be snack time so I would shake a little catnip into my spinach dip. I would do this for two reasons: to get my daily allotment of greens and, to research the power of this popular and global vice, which is sending hundreds of cats to CatNippers Anonymous everywhere. Soon AETV will air its first show with a feline subject. Yay to you my co-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 enamoured with language. Yet I have had a huge headache from years of never looking up the word ‘assertive.’ The word jumped at me when I literally fell on it via my Webster’s twenty-pound dictionary. How did I know which word tripped me up? That is an easy one. Upon close scrutiny, the fur balls who run my house, guffawed at me loudly. I must say, the lack of respect in today’s pets is so disconcerting to me. Still, I must forge ahead to fulfil my journey.
I’m a woman on the verge because, since making mistakes like bathing my sweeties at the same time,
I’m fighting for any scrap of dignity and forgiveness the 
management will throw at me. What? Only two bits of kibble? I’ll take it. Why not? I’ve been running on fumes for so many years now that even a raised eyebrow of acknowledgment is well worth it. You’re right. I don’t like liver and chicken delight. Never did. What can I say? 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 tied up trying to unravel all that silly yarn, I do whatever strikes my fancy and do so without apologies. That rule stands even if the object of my intrigue comes as Meow Mix for the queens’ amuse-bouche of the moment. That is, unless I am trying to reassume control of the Bridge, so to speak, from its current squatters. Okay. Okay. Fancy Feast it is then.
