Following a Year of Avoiding Each Other, the Feline and Canine Have Started Fighting.

We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one 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 kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I comment.

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 sliding along, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. 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’ll do it, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.