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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

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

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” 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 responds.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, 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 will, just as soon as …” I say.

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 animals halt, 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 more serious than fun, but the feline can easily 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat 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 says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” 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 declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

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 lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

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

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“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.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.