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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yeah, 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 bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat 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 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 icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

“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 canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns 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 cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” 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. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.