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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle child replies.

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

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to draw the dog in. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up 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 as a fighting mass.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems 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 go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

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

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. 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. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I say. The dog and the cat pause briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.