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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“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 team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

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 reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Have fun,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.