Isabella woke me up at 4:00 this morning—apparently starving, as always. She’s a creature of habit, and once she decides it’s time to eat, there’s no convincing her otherwise. So I got up, fed her, and crawled back into bed. I managed another forty-five minutes of sleep before she decided that was quite enough for both of us. I’m not entirely convinced she understands that I need to get up and get ready for work. More likely, she thinks it’s simply time for me to be awake… or perhaps she’s trying to trick me into feeding her again.
Either way, she won.
So, I got up, made a cup of coffee and some toast, and settled in for a quiet start to the morning—writing this post and half-watching the news before I have to get ready for the day. It’s not a bad way to ease into things, even if it came a little earlier than I would have preferred.
The good news is that I’m not dreading work today. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to it. I’ll be the only one there, which means no interruptions, no distractions—just the rare chance to focus. Days like that are a gift.
I’ve been working on a project that falls into that strange category of being both time-consuming and genuinely enjoyable: creating a class. It’s currently just a one- or two-day component within a larger course, but I’m also developing a full semester-long course proposal built around it. It’s the kind of work that requires patience and thought, but it’s also the kind I find most rewarding.
Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’ll decide to take advantage of the quiet in a different way—maybe pull out my Kindle and read for a bit. That’s the beauty of a day like today. I can focus on something meaningful… or, if I need to, nothing at all.
And honestly, sometimes that’s just as important.
Here’s an Isabella pic of the week: clearly exhausted from the demands of her early morning schedule, she’s already curled up and getting on with her very busy day—while I get going with mine.
Some days, a topic for a post just refuses to come together. I’ll sit down thinking I’ll write about having nothing to say, and somewhere along the way, something sparks and I end up rambling on about whatever crossed my mind.
Today… is not one of those days.
So, I’ll keep it simple. I hope everyone has a nice, easy Thursday.
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.
It’s one of those days that sits in an in-between space—part of Holy Week, part of the lead-up to Good Friday, but often quieter, less defined in my mind than Easter Sunday or even Palm Sunday. And yet, it carries one of the most intimate and, frankly, unusual traditions in Christianity: the washing of feet.
I’ll be honest—feet have never really done anything for me. I know foot fetishes are a thing, and if that’s what someone is into, more power to them, but it’s never been my thing. There is, however, one small exception. In the summer, there is something undeniably attractive about a guy in shorts and flip flops—thongs, as some people call them—with a good tan and well-kept feet. I enjoy the look, I’ll admit that. But that’s about where it ends. Admiration, not participation.
Now, receiving a foot massage after a long day? That’s a different story. I don’t think there’s a person alive who doesn’t appreciate that. Giving one, however, is another matter entirely. I’ll pass on that, thank you very much.
All of this was on my mind this morning because today is Holy Thursday—also called Maundy Thursday—and in many traditions, especially in the Roman Catholic Church, there is the ritual of washing feet. It’s meant to symbolize humility and equality, recalling the moment when Jesus Christ washed the feet of his disciples during the Last Supper, on the night before his crucifixion.
It’s a striking image when you really think about it. A teacher, a leader—someone his followers believed to be the Son of God—kneeling down to do the work of a servant. Not just symbolically lowering himself, but physically, intentionally taking on a task that was considered beneath someone of his status.
That wasn’t a tradition I grew up with.
There weren’t many Catholics where I lived, and it certainly wasn’t something practiced in the Church of Christ. The first time I really became aware of foot washing as a religious act wasn’t in a cathedral or during Holy Week—it was driving past a small, plain church and being told, almost in passing, that they were “Foot Washing Baptists.”
That stuck with me.
Officially, they’re known as Primitive Baptists, a group that tries to hold closely to early Baptist traditions and theology often associated with figures like John Calvin. But what I remember wasn’t the theology—it was the practice. They would wash one another’s feet as part of their worship, usually after communion, or the Lord’s Supper as we always called it.
Even then, I remember thinking how unusual it seemed.
And yet, the more I’ve thought about it over the years, the more I realize how deeply human—and how deeply uncomfortable—that kind of ritual is meant to be. It breaks down barriers. It asks people to step out of their usual roles, their sense of dignity, their personal space, and to meet one another in a place of vulnerability and equality.
So here we are: Holy Thursday bringing together a strange mix of thoughts—foot washing as a sacred act, childhood memories of small churches and unfamiliar traditions, and, somehow, the modern reality that feet can also be the object of entirely different kinds of attention.
It’s funny how the mind works, especially at four in the morning. It wanders. It connects things that don’t seem like they should belong together. And sometimes, in those odd connections, something meaningful—or at least interesting—emerges.
Maybe that’s part of what today invites us to do. To sit with the unexpected. To consider humility in ways that feel a little uncomfortable. To remember that the most powerful acts of love and equality are often the least glamorous.
And maybe, just maybe, to appreciate that even something as ordinary—and, for some of us, as unappealing—as feet can carry a deeper meaning when placed in the right context.
🐈⬛ 🐈⬛ 🐈⬛
I swear sometimes Isabella can read a clock. More than once, she has started trying to wake me up at exactly 4:00 a.m., as if she’s got an internal alarm that’s more reliable than mine. I’ll post an Isabella Pic of the Week after this—because if she’s awake at 4 a.m., she has decided she should not be alone in that experience… and that it’s clearly time for her wet food.
Since I’m working from home today, I was able to sleep in a bit. When Isabella started trying to wake me, I fed her and then went back to bed. I managed to get an extra hour and a half of sleep. Of course, when I finally did get up, she was more than ready for me to join her. I’m never quite sure whether she doesn’t want me to oversleep or if she just wants me in the living room where she is.
She has always preferred being in the same room as me. That doesn’t necessarily mean I can always see her or even know exactly where she is, but she knows I’m nearby, and for her, that seems to be all that matters.
People often say that cats are aloof, that they do their own thing and care about little else. I’ve never found Isabella to be that way. Unless I get home much earlier than usual, she is almost always at the door when I come in. If I’ve been away, she seems like she can’t get enough of me afterward. She is a very faithful companion, and I feel lucky to have her in my life—though I do sometimes question that at 3 a.m. when she decides she needs to be fed.
In this week’s Isabella pic of the week, the image may not be perfectly focused, but it captures something better—a quiet affection in her eyes as she looks at me.
This morning began with a bit of confusion—or at least it felt like confusion in the middle of the night.
At some point I woke up and glanced over at my Amazon Echo. The clock read 11:18 p.m. Isabella was already trying to wake me up, which seemed odd. She usually doesn’t start her morning routine quite that early. I remember thinking, Why on earth is she trying to get me up at 11:18? I just went to bed.
For a moment, I wondered if something was wrong. Years ago, Isabella had a habit of waking me in the middle of the night if my blood sugar dropped too low. It was uncanny how she seemed to know when something wasn’t right. But that hasn’t happened in years, so I mostly dismissed the thought and drifted back to sleep.
A while later, Isabella was back at it—more insistent this time. When I looked at the Echo again, it still said 11:18 p.m. That’s when things started to feel a little strange. Surely that much time hadn’t passed and it was still 11:18.
So I picked up my phone.
4:21 a.m.
Ah.
Apparently time had not, in fact, frozen in my bedroom.
I tapped the screen of the Echo, which took a moment or two to wake up and think about its life choices before finally updating the display to the correct time and date. As best as I can tell, the device had simply frozen overnight and needed a little nudge to catch back up with reality.
Still, it made for a rather confusing moment. There I was thinking Isabella had decided that 11:18 p.m. was now an appropriate time to start the day.
To be fair, she probably knew exactly what time it was all along. Cats run on a very precise internal schedule that revolves around breakfast, attention, and making sure their humans don’t oversleep.
The Echo may have gotten stuck in the past, but Isabella clearly did not.
And judging from how determined she was to wake me, she would like it noted that 4:21 a.m. is already past breakfast time.
Fair warning: today’s post is more medically informative than my usual reflections—it’s still personal, but a bit heavier on the details than you’re accustomed to here, and I suspect this medication may also make me a bit loquacious, as Susan could probably attest after our conversation last night.
It’s not often that I wake up and still feel this sleepy. I have a migraine medication that I rarely take because it can make me drowsy for a couple of days. Most of my other medications work fine, so I tend to avoid the ones that linger like that. I think this morning’s drowsiness is also due to a migraine medication.
At my last appointment at the Headache Clinic, they gave me a new medication to try. It’s one of the newer CGRP medications. I’ve tried several over the years. This one is interesting because it can be used as a rescue drug, though some CGRP medications are used as preventatives.
I take Qulipta daily as a preventative. Ubrelvy, however, is a rescue medication. Most CGRP medications are taken once a month, once every three months, or daily. Ubrelvy isn’t taken that way. It’s meant to be taken at the first sign of a migraine—usually an aura.
Auras look different for everyone, but they’re a signal that a migraine attack is imminent. For me, my auras are small twinkling lights that float in my vision. They aren’t dramatic, and they rarely last more than a few seconds—never more than 30 seconds. I don’t always see an aura before a migraine, but if I do see one, I will get a migraine.
So instead of taking it at the beginning of the headache itself, as with most triptans, Ubrelvy is taken when the aura appears.
Yesterday, I saw an aura and took a dose of Ubrelvy. I never developed the migraine. That alone feels like a victory.
Ubrelvy has three potential—though still somewhat rare—side effects: nausea, sleepiness, and fatigue. Most people experience side effects within 30 minutes to an hour after taking a medication. However, because of my liver issues, medications can take longer to become effective or for side effects to appear. Some medicines, including Ubrelvy, are metabolized in the liver. When liver function is compromised, metabolism can slow down, which can delay both effectiveness and side effects.
That seems to be what happened with this dose.
About three to four hours after seeing the aura and taking the medication, I became very drowsy and fell asleep in the middle of reading a book. It took me a bit to fully wake up, but once I did, I seemed fine. Then last night, the drowsiness hit again. I fell asleep early and slept through the night—even through Isabella’s usual insistence on being fed.
I woke up at 4:00 a.m. when she made her presence known, but I went back to sleep. When I woke again around 4:30, I checked the time and made myself get up, feed her, and put on some coffee.
I’m awake now, but I could very easily lie back down and fall asleep again—even after being up for an hour.
I’m hoping this doesn’t last all day. I’ll drink my coffee, watch the news, and take a shower—all of which should help me wake up more fully. I was out of work Monday with a migraine, off yesterday, and I have an important meeting at 9:00 a.m., so I really need to be at work today. If this drowsiness continues, it may not be a full workday—but hopefully I’ll shake it off and get through.
I’ll likely make a strong cup of tea when I get to work this morning.
For now, though, I’m moving slowly and hoping the fog lifts soon.
To make up for how boring this post may have been, here’s Isabella’s Pic of the Week (with a little bit of me thrown in the mix):
It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then, the words just… stall. Maybe it’s a bit of stress at work. Maybe it’s mental clutter. Maybe it’s simply that there are seasons when nothing feels particularly profound or pressing enough to turn into a post. For someone who writes almost every day, that can feel unsettling.
Writer’s block has a way of whispering, you’ve run out of things to say. But I know that isn’t true. Life is still unfolding. Thoughts are still forming. They’re just quieter this week.
And maybe that’s okay.
Not every week has to be a carefully crafted reflection. Not every day needs a tidy moral or an eloquent conclusion. Sometimes we’re just tired. Sometimes we’re in between ideas. Sometimes we need to sit in the stillness and trust that creativity, like everything else, moves in cycles.
I suspect the words will come back soon. They always do.
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with something that never fails to bring a bit of peace into my life—a few Isabella Pics of the Week. It’s been a while since I’ve shared one, so here you go. 🐾
Sometimes, when the words won’t come, a quiet companion is more than enough.
I got a little distracted this morning watching Starfleet Academy and completely forgot to write a post. It happens.
There’s not much exciting to report today, but I am seeing my new neurologist for the first time. I’ve been waiting nearly three years for the Headache Clinic to hire a new permanent neurologist, so this appointment has been a long time coming. I’m cautiously optimistic—and really hoping this one sticks around.
She seems fresh out of medical school—very Dr. Bashir energy—though I’m realistic enough to know she won’t be nearly as distractingly attractive.
And since I haven’t posted an Isabella Pic of the Week in a while, here’s one for this week. 🐾
Isabella woke me up way too early this morning and simply would not leave me alone. Eventually, I gave in, got up, fed her, and did something I almost never do when she wakes me before my alarm: I laid down on the couch, pulled a blanket over me, and went back to sleep.
I ended up sleeping a little longer than usual, which helped… a bit. I still don’t really want to be awake, but here we are—I have to go to work today. If I didn’t have two meetings I really don’t want to put off, I’d probably call in. Not just because I’m not feeling great, but because the weather is awful, and that almost guarantees a stressful drive in.
Last night, the news said this snow and wintery mix wouldn’t arrive until this evening. They were very explicit that my part of Vermont would be one of the last to see snow. Apparently, though, once the system crossed the mountains, it decided to ignore the forecast entirely and switched abruptly from rain to snow.
So now it’s dark and snowy, but at least it’s Thursday and tomorrow will be a work from home day. Right now, I’m just trying to convince myself that coffee will be enough to get my day started.
Joe
The Closet Professor 