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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining 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 canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands 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, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. 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, 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 notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

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

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily 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 icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

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 feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose 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.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry 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.