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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

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

“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 pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog 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. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. 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 rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“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 in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.