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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” 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 will, right after …” I say.

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

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. 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 sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, 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 cabinet with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls 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 down the stairs.