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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle one and the eldest's partner have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents is strange, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the centre of a boiler room stock fraud operation, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I ask.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The feline stands on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and pursues it around round the table, avoiding cables.

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

The cat rolls over on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog’s muzzle. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

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

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” 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, at which point they’re happy to leave it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“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 dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. 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 before their meal, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, sits, and looks up at me.

“Meow,” it voices.

“Dinner is at six,” I say. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cupboard door with its claws.

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

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

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

“I won’t,” I insist.

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

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, 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, turns and attacks.

“Stop it!” I yell. The pets hesitate to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen while others sleep. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, ready for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

“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 says.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, talking.”

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

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.