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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. 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, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“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.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the feline can easily 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. Finally I return to the main room, 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 agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the eldest says.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly 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 at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

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

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. 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.