Domestication Tessa Yang (bio) They couldn't figure out what to do with the cat. The old man had been moved to the nursing home, the unlicensed firearms he'd stuffed beneath seat cushions bagged and dropped in the landfill like murder weapons because neither Douglas nor his sisters had any idea what to do with them. The refrigerator had been emptied of its mold-spotted deli meat and expired condiments. The realtor had come by, shaking her head and listing with forced patience the flaws that required repair before the house could sell. The urine smell had (mostly) been scrubbed from the master bedroom, which the old man had twice mistaken for the public restroom at Wrigley Field. His clothing—the articles not transferred with him to the nursing home—had been boxed for Goodwill. His record collection had been divided into two piles based on approximate worth: eBay and trash. But they couldn't figure out what to do with the cat. It stared at them from its perch on the dusty organ in the old man's living room, the tip of its tail flicking like a metronome over yellowing sheet music. Douglas and his sisters stared back, silently radiating the responsibility between them, until Connie raked a hand through her gray curls and said, "So, he'll go with Douglas. Is that right?" The other sisters warmly concurred, as if restating a previously agreed-upon conclusion, which they probably were. "Oh no," said Douglas. "No way. I did not choose early retirement so I could spend my days scooping kitty litter. Connie, you've been coming over to feed it—" "But I can't take it home because of the shepherds," said Connie. "Fine. But then one of you—" They went down the line, oldest to youngest, readymade excuses springing from their lips. Cheryl had her grandbabies three days a week and the cat was a notorious scratcher. Marie's townhouse had a strict no-pets policy. Harriet cited her latest boyfriend, who began wheezing when he so much as passed a person in the grocery store with cat dander on their sweater. Lynn, a motivational speaker, was too frequently out of town rallying corporate audiences to believe in their best selves. What sort of cruelty would it be for her to adopt an animal she'd never be home to care for? Though by nature the sisters were quarrelsome—Marie had given Lynn's book one star on Goodreads, and Cheryl said Connie's dog-breeding program was a sad attempt to compensate for her childless life, and they all thought Harriet's boyfriends were losers—on this matter, they were a united front. They emitted little noises of sympathy at one another's justifications. Douglas felt himself hemmed in. He was sixty-three years old, but he'd never managed to unlearn childhood's repeated lessons in bowing to his sisters' formidable joined will. The cat's ears twitched. It raised a paw as if to begin washing its whiskers, but then just left it there, dangling in Douglas's direction like an accusatory finger. Tag, you're it. [End Page 17] He found the carrier in the basement and spent the next five minutes trying to shove the cat inside. He'd earned himself half a dozen long scratches by the time Lynn appeared with an open can of tuna. She flung a few pieces into the carrier and, after a moment, the cat slunk inside. Lynn shut the door and latched it. "See?" said Douglas, exasperated. "You see that right there? You're fit to do this. Not me. I don't know the first thing about cats. I've never had an animal in my life, and I've never wanted one." "Oh, Doug," chided Lynn. "Stop being so dramatic. You know you're just gonna dump it at the nearest animal shelter. No one really expects you to keep it." She went to join the other sisters, who'd fanned out to complete the remaining chores before they fled to their separate homes. They all lived within the city. Douglas, who owned a few acres outside South Bend, was the...