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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, 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 pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, 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 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 oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

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

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. 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, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I say.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the eldest observes.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, 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 uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause 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. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“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.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.