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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. 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, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over 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 muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

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

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the pets 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 gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, 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 turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.