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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

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

The dog corners the cat, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around round the table, dodging power cords.

“Normal maybe, but not natural,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog takes the bait, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog’s muzzle. The canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

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.”

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

“Yes, I told them that, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding costs a lot, 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, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle 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 keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, among the monitors and cables and the children and pets.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to bring feeding forward by an hour. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

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

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

“One hour,” I declare.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I give food to the pets. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, turns and strikes.

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

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend enters the room, ready for work, and fills a water bottle at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I must work now, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

“Have fun,” she adds, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large 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 down the stairs.