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We return home 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 dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. 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 back, assuming a passive stance 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 preferred it when they avoided one another,” I state.

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

My spouse enters.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day 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 enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. 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 starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.