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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

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

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, 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 thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” 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.

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing 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 say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Indeed,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.