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We return home from our vacation to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I ask.

“Yes, this happens regularly,” the middle one replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The feline stands on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and pursues it around the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, 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 canine retreats, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“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 say. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is just before mealtime, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The dog and the cat stop, look around, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the pets stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it says.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cabinet with its front paws.

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

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” 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 crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and lightly bats at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and flips it upside down. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and attacks.

“Stop it!” I say. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are sleeping. Briefly the only sound in the house is me typing.

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

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I agree. “Meeting people, 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 begins moving slowly down the stairs.