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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this is normal now,” 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 canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. 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 preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

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.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, 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, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“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 support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.