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We return home from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, 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 bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I comment.

The feline turns on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave 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 dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

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

The dog and the cat fight 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 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, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are sleeping. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Leaves drop 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 begins moving slowly from upstairs.