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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“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 says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

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

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all 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 get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, 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 get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

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

“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 oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room 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 cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. 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.