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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

“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 takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails 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 believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, 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 in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away 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 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. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires 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 work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. 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 sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.