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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like 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’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

“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 says.

“Yeah, 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 indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look 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 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 my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “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, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.