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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child says.

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

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, 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 say.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, 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 with you for ever for free.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

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 escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.