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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle child 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 canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

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

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“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. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door 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, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

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, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the eldest observes.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.