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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge 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 monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, 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 oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“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.

“Yeah, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest says.

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.