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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. 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 dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “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.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.