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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“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 spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

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 keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

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

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The canine 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. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” 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. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop 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.