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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. 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 main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is 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.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.