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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. 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 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.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” 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. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room 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 under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

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