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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

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 snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “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 confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, 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 with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. 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. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, 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 sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. 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 under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

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

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

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

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 fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.