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We return home from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, 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 snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the eldest says. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I will, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, 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, left without heat for a fortnight. 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 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, sits, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Alright then,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and fills a water bottle from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

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

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, 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 sitting in the corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.