A Queen Was Born

Ten years ago, in Maryland, a cat gave birth to a beautiful black kitten. That little kitten, along with her brothers, would eventually make her way to Vermont—though neither of us knew at the time just how much we would come to need one another.

I had been in Vermont for about eight months. It was a difficult season in my life. I was lonely and struggling with depression, still grieving the loss of one of my best friends, who had died in a car accident just seven months earlier. My two cats were still back in Alabama because my apartment didn’t allow pets, and I felt their absence deeply.

One day, while my landlords were downstairs renovating an apartment, I mentioned that I was planning to move so I could have a cat again. They told me that if I put down a $50 deposit, I could have one. That was all I needed to hear. I got my checkbook and wrote the check that day.

I went to the local humane society and told them I wanted to adopt a kitten. They said they had four—three males and one female. The three males were tumbling over each other, full of energy and mischief. But off to the side, tucked under a chair, was a small, solid black kitten—quiet, a little frightened, and completely alone.

I picked her up, and in that moment, I knew. She was meant for me.

Her name was Bridget, which just didn’t fit. My previous cat, Victoria—named for Queen Victoria—had truly been a queen in every sense, and on this blog she was known as HRH, Her Royal Highness. I had lost her just shy of her 16th birthday, and I still felt that absence.

So I decided this kitten needed a queen’s name too.

Elizabeth was out (my sister already had that name), Mary didn’t feel quite right, and Catherine… well, I wasn’t going to name a cat “Cat.” I wanted something strong. I considered Boadicea—Boudica—but it felt a bit unwieldy. Then I landed on Isabella, after Isabella I of Castile, the formidable queen who completed the Reconquista and helped finance Christopher Columbus’s voyage.

And just like that, Bridget became Isabella.

She took to the name immediately—and has lived up to it ever since.

When I first saw her, she was a scared and lonely kitten, and I was a depressed and lonely man. Somehow, together, we found our way through both her fear and my grief. I had good friends, like Susan, who helped me through that time—but Isabella deserves a great deal of the credit as well.

Even now, I still have days—or sometimes weeks—when depression creeps back in. But Isabella is always there.

She’s not exactly a cuddler, at least not in the traditional sense. She doesn’t curl up in my arms or demand constant affection. But she is always near. Always in the same room. Sometimes under the bed, sometimes tucked into a corner, sometimes simply watching. And when she does want to be close, she’ll come lay across my hip.

The closest she comes to cuddling is when I’m on my back and she stretches herself along me, her paws resting on my chest, quietly asking to be petted.

As I write this, she’s standing beside me, reminding me that it’s time to stop typing and start giving her the attention she believes she is owed—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Ten years ago today, I had no idea that the best medicine for my loneliness and depression had just been born 500 miles south of Vermont.

But I’m very glad she was.

Happy Birthday, Isabella. 🎂🐈‍⬛

A little cat birthday humor for you: