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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, 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 centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “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 you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time 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 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 feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large 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 down the stairs.