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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge 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 electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

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

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

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 dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “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 add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

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

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.