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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child 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 kitchen 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 dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. 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, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, 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 spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, 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. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, 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 sole period the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert 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 say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I say.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the eldest says.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session 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 says.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.