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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “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 explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away 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 get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. 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.