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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. 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 natural,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance 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 sliding along, clinging below.

“I preferred it 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 says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“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 dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the 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 escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, 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 only time the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

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

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.