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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, 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 eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave 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 are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“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 dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems 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 retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. 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 get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.