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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep 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 dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“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. Sometimes it seems 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 icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one observes.

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.