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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 managing things for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over 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 dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“I believe they enjoy it,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

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

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, 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’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The sole moment the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, look at her, and then roll out of the room 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 escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. 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, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and gazes at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the cat says. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. After the cat eats, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, turns and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before carrying on.

The following day I get up before dawn to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner walks into the kitchen, ready for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The windows have begun to pale, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We share a sad look as a fighting duo starts to make its slow progress down the stairs.