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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents 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. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“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 will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment 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.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn 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 my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, 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 exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.