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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

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 were afraid of each other,” I say.

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “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 say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears 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 go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop 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 begins moving slowly down the stairs.