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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, 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 avoided one another,” I say.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion 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 the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace 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 voices.

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

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.