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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands 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 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she says.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period 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, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes 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’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 notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.