I think the most exciting thing to happen around here lately occurred this morning when Isabella did something completely unexpected: she let me sleep.

She first tried to wake me up around 3:30 a.m. Normally, once Isabella decides it is time for breakfast, she can be very persistent. This morning, however, she apparently reconsidered. She settled down beside me and patiently waited for me to wake up on my own.

That led to two surprises.

The first came when I rolled over and felt something furry beside me. Usually, if Isabella is that close to my head in the early morning hours, she is meowing at me and doing everything she can to wake me up. Instead, she was just lying there quietly.

The second surprise came when I looked at the clock: 4:45 a.m.

She had let me sleep for more than an hour after her first attempt to wake me. Since she had been such a good and patient girl, I got up and fed her before making myself a cup of coffee.

All of this got me thinking about something I’ve wondered about for years. I have a question for all my fellow cat owners out there: Have you ever had a cat that whispers?

Isabella does.

In fact, Isabella seems to have five different levels of meowing, and after ten years together, I know what most of them mean.

At the quietest level, she whispers. Sometimes almost no sound comes out at all; other times she makes a tiny little “ack ack” noise.

The next level is a short, high-pitched meow. It’s still very soft and usually just enough to let me know she wants my attention.

Then there is what I think of as her unhappy meow. It’s slightly louder and has a plaintive quality to it, almost as if she’s crying. This is the sound she makes when something is not going according to Isabella’s plans.

After that comes what I would consider a normal cat’s meow. Oddly enough, this is probably the one I hear least often. Even at her normal volume, Isabella is usually fairly soft-spoken.

And then there is THE MEOW.

Isabella reserves this one for those moments when she can hear me but can’t see me. If I’m on the other side of a closed door, for example, subtlety goes right out the window. She also uses it when she’s in her cat carrier and the carrier starts moving. Put that carrier in a moving car, and Isabella makes sure that everyone within hearing distance knows exactly how she feels about the situation.

The whispering, though, is unlike anything I’ve ever heard from another cat I’ve had.

My previous cat, Victoria, had essentially one volume: loud. She was part Siamese, and instead of a traditional “meow,” she had that distinctive Siamese “YEOW!” If Victoria had something to say, there was never any question about whether you were going to hear it. Isabella, by comparison, has an entire vocabulary of little whispers, squeaks, cries, meows, and, when necessary, full-volume protests.

I think anyone who has lived with a cat long enough eventually learns that cats have a language all their own. We begin to recognize that one sound means “I’m hungry,” another means “Where are you?” and another means “Something is terribly wrong, and by terribly wrong I mean that you’ve closed a door between us.”

They learn our language, too. Maybe they don’t understand every word we say, but they certainly learn particular words, sounds, tones of voice, and routines. Somehow, over the years, we develop a language together.

This morning, though, Isabella didn’t need to make a sound at all.

She simply curled up beside me and waited.

For a cat who usually believes breakfast should be served promptly at 4 a.m.—if not earlier—that may have been the most eloquent thing she could have said.

Black Cats Make Mondays Better

It’s Monday again, but today is also National Black Cat Appreciation Day. If ever there were a reason to make Monday a little brighter, celebrating black cats—especially my Isabella—seems like a very good one.

Black cats have long been associated with superstition, particularly the belief that they bring bad luck. Although most people probably do not take those old stories seriously, the stigma has never entirely disappeared. In shelters across the United States, black cats are often overlooked in favor of cats with more colorful or distinctive markings. Some people still avoid them because of superstition, while others simply do not notice how beautiful and expressive they can be.

Anyone who has ever shared a home with a black cat knows there is nothing unlucky about them.

Isabella has been part of my life for more than ten years now, and I cannot imagine my home without her. She wakes me around four every morning to make sure breakfast is served promptly, and she has perfected the art of finding exposed skin when gentler methods fail. She has her routines, her preferences, and very definite opinions about how our household should operate. As far as Isabella is concerned, I merely live here to meet her needs.

Still, she is also my companion. She makes an ordinary day less lonely and a difficult day easier simply by being near me. She can be demanding, stubborn, affectionate, funny, and endlessly entertaining—often all within the span of a few minutes. She brings far more love and happiness into my life than any superstition could ever outweigh.

Black cats are not bad luck, sinister, or somehow less worthy of affection. They are simply cats, each with a personality entirely their own, waiting for someone willing to see beyond the color of their fur.

If you are ever considering adopting a cat, do not pass over the quiet black one watching from the corner—or hiding beneath a chair while her brothers run around the room. I am so glad I reached down and picked up that quiet, frightened, and beautiful little cat named Bridget. Of course, that name would never do. Bridget became Isabella, and she came home with me.

Mondays may not always be worth celebrating, but black cats certainly are.

Yesterday was Isabella’s Adoption Day, and somehow I forgot.

In my defense, my mind hasn’t exactly been firing on all cylinders lately. Between migraines, work, and worrying about Isabella’s recent health issues, June 18 slipped by without me realizing what day it was. It wasn’t until later that I remembered: yesterday marked ten years since I adopted Isabella.

Ten years ago, I walked into the local humane society and met a tiny black kitten they had named Bridget. She was frightened, hiding under a chair, and uncertain about the strange world around her. I knew almost immediately that Bridget wasn’t her name. My cats have always been named after queens. Victoria had already held that title in my life, and Elizabeth was out because that’s my sister’s name. But Isabella—Queen Isabella—seemed fitting. Regal. Strong. Memorable.

What I didn’t know then was how important Isabella would become.

When I adopted her in June of 2016, I was still trying to find my footing in Vermont. I had moved 1,200 miles from home, and the year before had been one of the most difficult of my life. I was grieving the loss of a dear friend and struggling with loneliness in a place that still felt unfamiliar. Isabella arrived at exactly the right moment.

She was timid at first. She hid under the bed, cried when I left the room, and seemed convinced that everything in the apartment was out to get her. But little by little, she grew more confident. Soon she was exploring every corner of the apartment and making herself completely at home.

Unlike some cats, Isabella is not especially vocal. Most of the time, she communicates without making a sound at all. She has a look for when she wants something. A look for when she’s annoyed. A look for when she’s judging me. She quietly meows in the mornings when it’s time for breakfast, becomes quite vocal when I return from a trip and she wants to tell me everything I’ve missed, and will call out if she can hear me but can’t see me on the other side of a door. The rest of the time, she somehow manages to make her wishes known without saying a word.

Over the years, Isabella has been my constant companion. She has greeted me when I came home from work, curled up beside me when I wasn’t feeling well, and kept me company through moments of joy and moments of heartbreak. She has been the steady presence waiting for me at the end of each day.

Lately, I’ve been reminded just how much she means to me. Her asthma diagnosis and recent cardiac testing have been a source of worry. Watching her struggle to breathe during an asthma attack was frightening, and waiting for answers has not been easy. The good news is that she has not had an asthma attack in several days, which gives me hope that the medication is helping. We still have an echocardiogram ahead of us, but for now I am grateful for every quiet day when she seems comfortable and content.

Today, Isabella is ten years older than the tiny kitten I brought home from the shelter. She’s still stubborn. She’s still opinionated. She’s still the queen of this castle. And despite all the gray hairs she’s probably responsible for giving me, I wouldn’t trade a single day with her.

Ten years ago, I thought I was rescuing a frightened little kitten.

The truth is that she rescued me too.

Happy Belated Adoption Day, Isabella. Thank you for ten wonderful years.