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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

“Normal maybe, but not typical,” I say.

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“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 says.

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. 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 before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry 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.