Following a Year of Ignoring One Another, the Feline and Canine Are Now at War.

We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture 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 preferred it when they avoided one another,” I say.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting 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, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

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

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.