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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, 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.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, right after …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I say. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot 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 notes.

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

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.