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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. 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, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, 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 avoided one another,” I say.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat 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 dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” 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 swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.