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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

“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 preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.