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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner 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 monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

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

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture 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 sliding along, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. 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 will, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, 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 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

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

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.