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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yeah, this happens regularly,” the middle one says.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

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

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

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

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

My wife walks in.

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

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

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, 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 sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one says.

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” 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 lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Enjoy,” she adds, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop off the large tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.