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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child says.

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

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

The cat rolls over 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. 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 will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline 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 on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, 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 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 voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” 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 crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

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 say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

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