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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, 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 canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

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 pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Common perhaps, 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 snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

“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 indefinitely at no charge.

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

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

The sole moment the canine and feline cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, settles, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The dog barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she says.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly from upstairs.