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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I will, right after …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, 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 main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, 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.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, 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 feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” 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 bunches. 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.