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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, 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 round the table, dodging power cords.

“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 cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “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 say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“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 wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.