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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining 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 canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, 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 chases it in circles 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 falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

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

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

“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 push for earlier food.

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

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door 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. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets are at peace is before their meal, 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.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.