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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. 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. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

“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.”

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she says.

“Yes, I told them that, 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’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.