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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, 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 spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the pets 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.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

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

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “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 sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.