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We come back from our holiday 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 refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, 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 confirm the roof repair.”

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she says.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace 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, turn, 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 more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. 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 kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is 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 support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets 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 gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.