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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I state.

“I believe they enjoy it,” the eldest remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My spouse enters.

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

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

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

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I say.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, look around, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

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 escape the commotion I retreat to my garden office, 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 pets stop fighting 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 looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, 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 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.