Following a Year of Avoiding One Another, the Cat and the Dog Have Declared War.

We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle one 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.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture 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, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” 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 notes.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the oldest one says.

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe 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.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.