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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back 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 natural,” I comment.

The feline turns 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 muzzle. 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 oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. 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 reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away 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 escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets 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 says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest observes.

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine 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. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance 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. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.