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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 in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle one says.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“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 passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare 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 to be edging beyond playful, 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 kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets 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.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.