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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, 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.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “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 explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, 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 wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle 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 keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise 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 the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” 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 takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.