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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child replies.

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

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

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

The sole moment the dog and cat 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, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, 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 icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets stop fighting 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 gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The next morning 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 me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed 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 need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. 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.