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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, 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 resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

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

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

The feline turns 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 muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“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.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, 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 freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

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 turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“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, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.