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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 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. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest remarks. “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 says.

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. 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.