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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: 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 is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. 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 the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one 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 explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

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

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look 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 feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise 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 the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest observes.

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.