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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: 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 is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

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

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“But I told them I couldn’t 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, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

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

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 returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires 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 work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.