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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, 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 hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I say.

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“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 never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap 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. 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 before their meal, when they work together 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. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. 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 flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.