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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, 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 waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle one replies.

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

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest remarks. “It's not always clear.”

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 responds.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, 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 will, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment 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.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

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. 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 pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.