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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over 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 muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” 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 passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat 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, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.