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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

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 dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they avoided one another,” I state.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

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

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

“I will, right after …” I say.

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

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up 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 claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

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

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.