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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” 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 canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, 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, 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 thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she says.

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm 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, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. 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 down the stairs.