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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

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

“Normal maybe, but not typical,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” 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 still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, 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, right after …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap 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. 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 dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.