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We come back from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its back legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. 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, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yes, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

“Will you phone them once more?” my wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

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

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

The pets battle intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets stop fighting 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 looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “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 canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the sole noise is me typing.

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

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, showing a gray day. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.