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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen 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 canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, 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 work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

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

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.

“Yeah,” I reply. “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.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.