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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child replies.

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “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 explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

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

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” 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 more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, 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 dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, 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 cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

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

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

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