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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its spine, 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 canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

“I preferred it 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 thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she says.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, 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 intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. 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 main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

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 says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. 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 enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.