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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, 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 dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

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

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she says.

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

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

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

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. 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 watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” 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.

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.