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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

“Normal maybe, but not typical,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“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 responds.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” 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 cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, 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 front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“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 sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” 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.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.