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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. 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 dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“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 add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, 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 not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the oldest one observes.

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, 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 cat runs, halts, turns 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 before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session 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 agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.