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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, 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 the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one 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 make sure the roof is fixed.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she responds.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I say.

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

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

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise 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 are at peace 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.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

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

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large 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 from upstairs.