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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle child says.

The canine traps the feline, 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 chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. 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, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they avoided one another,” I say.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep 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 are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“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. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace 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 looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” 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. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

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 share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.