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We return home from our holiday to an entirely changed home: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, bought from unknown stores. The dining table looks like the hub of a shady trading scheme, with computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at waist height. Below the sink, the dog and the cat are scrapping.

“They fight?” I say.

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

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. The cat rears up on its hind legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles the kitchen table, dodging power cords.

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

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 snout. 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. “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 say, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it indefinitely at no charge.

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

“I’ll do it, right after …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to push for earlier food.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room as a fighting mass.

The dog and the cat fight intermittently through the morning. At times it appears to be edging beyond playful, but the feline can easily to leave via the cat door and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, having sat unheated for two weeks. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the dog and the cat stop fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they work together to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “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 canine yaps, to support the feline.

“Sixty minutes,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The canine devours its meal, and then goes across to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose under the cat and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, pivots and strikes.

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

The following day I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the only sound in the house 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 comments.

“Yes,” 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 notes.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Enjoy,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Leaves drop from the big cherry tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a fighting duo begins moving slowly down the stairs.