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We come back 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 refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle one replies.

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. 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 typical,” I say.

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture 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 dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

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

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

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 leave via the cat door 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, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, 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.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.