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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” 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 wife says.

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

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

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 escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, 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 are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot 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 say. “Seeing others, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.