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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind 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.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, 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 wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle 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 keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls 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.