Domesticated Cats
/Ms. V. seemed disappointed that nearly two months had passed without a word from my wife or me. We met Ms. V. and her husband, Mr. J, at a wedding in 2024, and since then, we’ve been getting together semi-regularly for dinner dates. There must not be many good eateries in the Bronx, where they live, since they always insist on coming downtown to our area in Harlem or the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Last night at the Ethiopian restaurant, Ms. V. asked if I was a recluse, and I replied that I wasn't; I’m more like a domesticated cat. “What’s the difference?” she asked with a brief smile. I laughed as she rolled her eyes, grew serious, and moved closer, waiting for my answer. Fortunately, I was rescued by our waitress, who arrived just in time, saving me from having to explain what a domesticated cat is. I didn’t tell her, but I might have to when she asks the same question next time.
After the waiter took our orders, V. kept waiting for my response. “Not even a text, an email, or a phone call in over three months,” she said. “Don’t you two like us anymore?”
So, what is a domesticated cat besides a funny-sounding expression? It’s a routine of old habits repeated daily, year after year. It’s being comfortable with the same magazines on the coffee table, the same TV shows on cable, the same thin layer of dust on the windowsills, and the same smells wafting from the turtle’s tank and the garbage piled up outside our apartment building, waiting to be picked up by the sanitation department. It’s the same bottles of wine on the foyer table next to the coffee maker and the blender. It’s the panic that sets in when someone, usually a relative from out of town, calls unexpectedly, catching us off guard and asking if they can stop by later for a visit. The panic arises when my wife and I realize the house is a wreck, and we can’t wait until Sunday to straighten up; it must be done before we hear the buzzer downstairs and the high heels click-clacking down the hall to our apartment. Then our domesticated cat selves shift into explanation and apology mode: “Sorry about the mess; we weren’t expecting company.”
Our guests, Natasha and Reenie, are a couple of hard-core followers of the (FBA) Foundational Black American Slave movement and two of my least favorite people from my wife’s side of the family who constantly brag about their grandkids and their spacious new homes in the Atlanta suburbs. They scrutinize the smallness of our New York City apartment, with its minimal artwork, cramped kitchen, and dilapidated bookcases. We engage in small talk while I glance at the clock. I should have mopped last night, but procrastination goes hand in hand with a domesticated lifestyle. Did we remember to hide the prescription pill bottles in the bathroom? Nosy people like them always seem to check that out for some reason. You’ll never guess what I saw in their bathroom, lying there in plain view: prescription pills for… I didn’t know they were struggling with …
Tick, tock, tick, the clock keeps ticking away; when will they leave? I’m losing my afternoon energy and usually grab a catnap around this time. My domesticated cat self shifts into gracious host mode. “Have a seat. Would you like a drink or something to eat? If we had known you were coming, we would have prepared one of our signature dishes: my mushroom pasta or Pam’s Spanish tortilla. How about some Manchego cheese and crackers?
I turn on the TV, opting for something dull like golf or tennis—nothing engaging, like a blockbuster film or a news tragedy, such as a plane crash, that would entice them to settle down on the couch and watch with us.
And yet, despite all the time they’ve taken from our domesticated day, neither has mentioned our retirement, the autographed copies of my book I mailed to them last year, or music, even though my guitar sits prominently on the stand beside the TV. No one asks, “Hey, Uncle Mike, will you play a song for us?”
Meanwhile, we’ve had to endure their long-winded tales of suburban life: “Our new house is so cozy; the neighbors are wonderful, the schools are excellent, and we’re going to plant a new garden next summer.” I stand in front of our plants. I forgot to water them, and now they’re dry and wilted. I hope they didn’t notice. It’s noisy outside, with a bus stop directly in front of our building, and there’s a fire station and a hospital down the street, so the sirens blare day and night. It's not like those peaceful communities down south that we’ve heard about nonstop for the last two hours. “Well,” we say in unison as I glance at the clock again. The sun’s gone down. That’s the signal; they finally got it. “Thanks for stopping by.” We don’t mean it; we’re relieved they're finally leaving. “Don’t be a stranger,” they say. “Our doors are always open.” As if we’re going to jump on a plane and head down south. The only southern destination we’ll visit anytime soon is Atlantic City for a few nights of gambling!