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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back 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 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 sliding along, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“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 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 with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “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 dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“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 says.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.