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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The dog 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. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I rise early 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 fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.