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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“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 told them that, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

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

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

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

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

The pets battle 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 retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

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 lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose 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 resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, 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 off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.