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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining 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 fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, 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 tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, 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, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” 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 says.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.