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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. 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.

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

The feline turns 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“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 make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, 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 notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. 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.