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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining 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 scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, 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 bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, 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 state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“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 responds.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

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

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

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time 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.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I say.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one says.

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, 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, if it runs long.”

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

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.