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We return home 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 is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, 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 the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, 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 believe they enjoy it,” 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 make sure the roof is fixed.”

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she responds.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” 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.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, 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 my sons and the cat and the dog.

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

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.