After a Year of Avoiding Each Other, the Feline and Canine Have Declared War.

We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not typical,” I say.

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

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

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.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

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 takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

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