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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge 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 electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture 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, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away 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 keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert 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 cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

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 dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop 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.