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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the eldest child, the middle child and the eldest's partner have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

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 the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The feline turns on its back, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. 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 sliding along, clinging below.

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

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

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yes, I passed that on, 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.

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

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all 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 go to my shed, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it voices.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “It's only five now.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its claws.

“That’s not even the right cupboard,” I point out. The canine yaps, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I say.

“Meow,” the cat says. The dog barks.

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before resuming.

The following day I get up before dawn 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 enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot 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.”

“Enjoy,” she says, striding towards the front door.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in armfuls. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball starts to make its slow progress from upstairs.