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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child 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 looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the 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 cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I say.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she responds.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up 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 as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is 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 canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one observes.

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.