Following 12 Months of Avoiding Each Other, the Cat and the Dog Are Now at War.

We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child replies.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat 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, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight 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 keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion 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 my sons and the cat and the dog.

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

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.