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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, 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 the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

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

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all 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 escape the commotion 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 the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early 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 eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

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

“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. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.