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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle child replies.

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 dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance 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, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” 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 say. 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 say.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“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. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, 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 stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

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

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.