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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. 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 dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yes, 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.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time 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 gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “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 support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns 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 before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.