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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 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 fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. 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 believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

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

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” 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 crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry 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.