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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture 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, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “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 make sure the roof is fixed.”

“And I said I didn’t want to wait,” she says.

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding costs a lot, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes 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’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“That’ll be a nice day out for you,” she says.

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

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.