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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” 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 bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing 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 know you’re just gonna give in,” the oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

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

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

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“That’ll be a nice day out for you,” she notes.

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop 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.