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We come back from our holiday 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 refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. 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, 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 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 tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. 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. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“That’ll be a nice day out for you,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

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