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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one 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 say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

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

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, 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 feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.