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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, 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 cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“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 team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires 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 work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. 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. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.