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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle child replies.

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 pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, 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 wife walks in.

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

“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 passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, 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 say.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, 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 pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, 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 attacks.

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

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

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.