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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one 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 looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, 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 the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails 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 state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she says.

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away 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 cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. 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 main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. 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 see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.