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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yeah, 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 canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she says.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems 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 go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and gazes at me.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Stop it!” I say. 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. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is me typing.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.