🔗 Share this article

We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

“Normal maybe, but not typical,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws 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 oldest one says. “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 confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. 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 spouse asks.

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

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. 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 flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

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

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 share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.