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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment 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, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.