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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

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 pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. 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 avoided one another,” I state.

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

My wife walks in.

“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 passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look 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 more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat 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, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.