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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge 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 electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

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

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” 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 says.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

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

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, 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 pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

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

“One hour,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” 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 dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. 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 from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.