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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are fighting.

“They fight?” I ask.

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

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. 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, hooked underneath.

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

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one says. “It's not always clear.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

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

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, 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 spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, just as soon as …” I say.

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

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

The pets battle on and off all morning. At times it appears more serious than fun, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, having sat unheated for two weeks. Finally I return to the kitchen, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting 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 the wrong spot,” I point out. The canine yaps, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the dog. The dog uses its snout under the cat and turns it over. The cat runs, halts, pivots and attacks.

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

The next morning I get up before dawn 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 enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot today, so I need to get some work done, in case it goes on and on.”

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

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, saying things.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.