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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents 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 hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

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

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace 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, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back 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 in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” 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 the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. 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, halts, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” 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 sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. 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 begins moving slowly from upstairs.