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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

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

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears 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, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

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 swivels 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, pivots and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.