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We return home from our vacation 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 food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. 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 fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

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 dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, right after …” I say.

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

“Quit battling!” 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 on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise 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 the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look 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 eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“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 share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.