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We come back from our vacation to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The food in the fridge looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and nips the dog's ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles round the table, avoiding cables.

“Normal maybe, but not typical,” I comment.

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat sliding along, hooked underneath.

“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 notes.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “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 removal is needed, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the canine and feline are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, look around, look at her, and then tumble away as a fighting mass.

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. 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 stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, 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 cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I say.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to see the feline dine. When the cat is finished, it swivels and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and strikes.

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

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes 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.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve got a photo session today, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

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

“Yes it will,” I say. “Meeting people, saying things.”

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

The light is growing, 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 snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.