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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back 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 typical,” I say.

The cat rolls over 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 canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

“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 explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, 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 dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look 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 my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.