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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 over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. 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 wife says.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting 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 tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, 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 dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, 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 front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“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. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.