🔗 Share this article

We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, 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 only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the eldest observes.

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.