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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle one replies.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not typical,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

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

“And I said I didn’t want to 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 with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

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

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, 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 more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door 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. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” 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 point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look 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 my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. 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.