🔗 Share this article

We come back from our holiday 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 refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, 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 round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest 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 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 is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, stare 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 feline can easily 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 freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “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 says.

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

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.