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We return home from our holiday 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 looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, 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 will, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace 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, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

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 swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” 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.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. 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.