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We come back from our vacation 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 looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

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

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

The feline turns 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 muzzle. The dog backs away, 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 eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise 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 the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across 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 under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

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

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

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

“Have fun,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.