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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

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.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

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

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. 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 sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

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 flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot 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.”

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

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.