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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, 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, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets 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 looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” 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 turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.