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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 over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. 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 think they’re having fun,” the oldest one 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 explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I will, right after …” I say.

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 spouse shouts. 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. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires 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 cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

“No I’m not,” 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 see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day 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 me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “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.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

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 fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.