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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. 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 hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she says.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. 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 uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.