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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, 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 think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I thought they were going to take the scaffolding down,” 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 still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“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.

“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 dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily 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 icy, 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 dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog 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 turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls 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 down the stairs.