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We come back 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 refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “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 explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave 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 canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, look 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 cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. 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 stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” 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. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.