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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” 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 back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I preferred it 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 expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, 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 say.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the 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 retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, 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 voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across 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 feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. 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.