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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

“Common perhaps, but not typical,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” 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 responds.

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, stare 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 leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up 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 not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.