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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle one says.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance 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, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” 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 says.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. 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, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” 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 dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, 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 cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. 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, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.