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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

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

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” 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 never showed up,” I add. 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 say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems 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 freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables 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 bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, 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 feline cries. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. 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’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.