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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, 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 snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

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

“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 say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I will, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes 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 from the sink.

“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 notes.

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

“Have fun,” she says, 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 down the stairs.