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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: 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 dining 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 dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. 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, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. 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. “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 confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

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 turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

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