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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands 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.

“Common perhaps, but not typical,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I preferred it when they avoided one another,” I state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, 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 say.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop 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.