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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 over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I will, 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.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, 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 only time the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. 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 at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large 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 down the stairs.