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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child 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 dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle one says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. 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, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“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 responds.

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires 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 work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“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 crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.