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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles 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 say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance 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 dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

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

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, 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 keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. 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 comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop 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 from upstairs.