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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. 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 dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. 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, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. 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 spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

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

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert 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 say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.