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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I say.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “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 says.

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

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

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog 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 swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“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 exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.