🔗 Share this article

We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“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 muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

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

My wife walks in.

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

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

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she responds.

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

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

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables 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 work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” 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 gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The next morning 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 sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.