I cut ties with my own mother because of a dog. And I don’t regret a thing.
My life didn’t turn upside down the day my husband and I adopted a rescue dog, nor when I found out I was finally going to be a mother after years of treatment and heartbreak. Everything changed when my own mum, who I’d always been close to, suddenly became an enemy—not mine, no. My dog’s.
Baxter came into our lives eight years ago. A puppy with sad eyes, a troubled past, but the biggest heart. Oliver and I fell in love with him instantly—he became like a son to us, especially when our attempts to have a child kept failing. We cared for him, took him to the vet, worked with a dog trainer, and socialised him properly. He turned into the perfect family pet: gentle, calm, and loyal. We built our quiet little life—just me, my husband, and our Baxter.
When, after years of struggle, I finally saw two lines on the pregnancy test, the world felt brighter. We cried with joy. My mum and mother-in-law pretended to be happy too, but their excitement quickly turned to blame and panic.
“The dog has to go! Are you mad? Hair everywhere! Allergies! He’ll bite!” Mum shrieked.
“Find someone to take him! This is a baby we’re talking about! Surely he matters more than a dog?” my mother-in-law chimed in, rolling her eyes.
Oliver and I tried to explain calmly: Baxter wasn’t a threat. The house was spotless—we had a robot vacuum, hygiene standards were strict. He was family. No one was “rehoming” him. But the older generation wouldn’t back down. Mum called ten times a day, sobbing that I was ruining my unborn child. My mother-in-law screeched at Oliver. The pressure grew, and by my sixth month, I lay awake at night, clutching my belly in anxiety.
“One more word, and you won’t see us again,” Oliver said, staring them down.
After the birth, they went quiet. But not for long.
When I brought our son home from the hospital, the first thing I did was go to Baxter—he’d missed us, waiting by the door, whimpering. I knelt and hugged him. Mum and Mother-in-law exchanged loaded looks. Then, when our baby developed a rash the next day, they exploded.
“It’s the fur! It’s the dog! Have you lost your mind?” Mum screeched.
“You let that dog near the baby’s crib! Your own mother would die of shame!” Mother-in-law added.
I stayed silent. But Oliver had enough. He threw them both out.
Then came the threats. Outright. First it was, “We’ll poison the dog, see if we don’t!” Then, “We’ll report you to social services!” Mum declared she’d file a complaint—claiming our son lived in filth, sharing a flat with a dog. That I should lose custody, that I was “unhinged” for valuing an animal over my baby.
Filth? My home was cleaner than a private clinic. I mopped twice a day. Monitored food, humidity, washed our son’s clothes separately. But what did any of that matter when hatred filled their minds?
I told Mum firmly: one step towards social services, and she’d never see her grandson again. Never.
Since then—silence. Sometimes it hurts. She’s still my mum. But Baxter is family too. He was there when we couldn’t have a child. He kept us warm on the coldest days. He isn’t a threat. He’s love.
I didn’t give him up, and I won’t. If I had to choose between blackmail and the right to live peacefully with those I love, I chose the latter. And I don’t regret it.
