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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, 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 kitchen 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 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 pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns 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 sliding along, hooked underneath.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave 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.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables 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 get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up 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 front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.