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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“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 the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

“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, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

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

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You rose 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.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.