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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they avoided one another,” I say.

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away 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 cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, 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 are at peace 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 voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“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 says.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

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 share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.