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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 managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen 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 canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle one replies.

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, 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 avoided one another,” I state.

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

My spouse enters.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” 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.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” 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 insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.