🔗 Share this article

We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child replies.

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

“Common perhaps, but not typical,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I say.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she says.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the oldest one says.

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“That’ll be a nice day out for you,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.