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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 managing things 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 computer screens everywhere and electrical cables crisscrossing at hip level. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle child replies.

The canine traps the feline, by the rear entrance. 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.

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

The cat rolls over on its back, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the feline digs its nails into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

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

“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 said maybe wait until it rains,” I explain, “to make sure the roof is fixed.”

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

“Yeah, I passed that on, but they never showed up,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, 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 in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, stare at her, and then tumble away 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 escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The sole period the dog and the cat are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, 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 tell it. “It's only five now.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to support the feline.

“One hour,” I say.

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

“No I’m not,” I say.

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

“Alright then,” I relent.

I feed the cat and the dog. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. When the cat is finished, it turns and lightly bats at the canine. The dog uses its snout beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, stops, pivots and strikes.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I rise early to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The oldest one’s girlfriend walks into the kitchen, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

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

“Have fun,” 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 sitting in the corner. We share a sad look as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly from upstairs.