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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one says.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture 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 state.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” 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 says.

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

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

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “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 canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” 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 armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.