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We return home from our vacation 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, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind 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 typical,” I say.

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance 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 liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” 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 told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. 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 agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest says.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. 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 resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly 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 rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.