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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, 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 pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. 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 sliding along, clinging below.

“I preferred it when they avoided one another,” I say.

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door 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, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its claws.

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, turns and attacks.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “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 says.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. 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.