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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands 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 natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its back, 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 canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

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

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

“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 costs a lot, until removal is needed, 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 reply.

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

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period 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 gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, 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 say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. 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 from upstairs.