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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” 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 canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, 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, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one observes.

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, 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 gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. 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. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “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 snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.