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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left 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 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 sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, 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 indefinitely at no charge.

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

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

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door 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. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest observes.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, 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 fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.