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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting 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, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears 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 get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, 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 dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest 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 see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn 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 eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

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

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

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

“Have fun,” 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 bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.