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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner 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 power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I say.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, 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 say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door 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. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. 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 from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.