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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight 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 retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period 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 feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

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

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, 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 begins moving slowly from upstairs.