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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. 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.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one 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 make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight 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 escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, 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 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 sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.