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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner 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 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 one replies.

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

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” 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 wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period 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 looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

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

“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.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Have fun,” she adds, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.