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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” 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 says.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

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

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” 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 watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

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 only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.