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We return home from our vacation 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 food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. 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 were afraid of each other,” I state.

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

My spouse enters.

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

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. 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, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap 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 main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. 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 walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

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

“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 exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.