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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle child replies.

The dog corners the cat, 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 pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, 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 were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

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 icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

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 only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, 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 snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.