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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” 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 never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily 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, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

“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. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “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.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.