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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, 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 feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

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

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.