**Pulling a Fast One**
*You’re telling me that bloody mutt matters more than the kids?* Ingrid snapped, scrubbing yet another puddle off the kitchen tiles—the fifth one today.
The rug was long gone. When it became clear no shop-bought cleaner could break the stubborn habit of marking every corner, she’d rolled it up and dumped it in the bin.
But it wasn’t just the rug. Oliver had cracked open a tin of sweetcorn, dumped it into a bowl, and left both in the sink. The table was littered with crumbs, a coffee-stained mug, and an open jam jar with a spoon sticking out. The floor? A battlefield of shredded plush dinosaur and clumps of stuffing.
And who had to clean it? Always Ingrid.
*No need to shout,* Oliver muttered, rifling through the fridge. *He’s just a dog. Still settling in.*
She straightened up, irritation simmering for weeks behind her narrowed eyes. She thrust the wet cloth at him.
*Brilliant. Then you clean up after him. Let me remind you—he’s just a dog. I’m just your wife. Just the mother of your children. And we, your so-called family, are drowning in his mess!*
With a furious kick at the stuffing, she stormed off towards the bedroom, sidestepping the culprit—Thunder, a hulking grey beast with mournful eyes, watching from the doorway. Not a whimper, not a cower. As if he owed no apology.
She remembered how it started…
*…Two months ago, Oliver came home with that shaggy bundle of chaos.*
*Seb’s leaving. Long-term,* he’d said, grinning like he’d single-handedly saved the planet. *Says taking Thunder’s not an option. But I thought—he needs a family. Teach the kids responsibility. Isn’t it grand?*
Ingrid’s gut had twisted. It felt like an adoption without her consent.
*Fine. Suppose he stays. But who walks him? Feeds him? Cleans up?* She already knew the answer.
*We’ll share. Family effort. Though… you finish work earlier. Maybe you handle walks?*
She’d sighed but nodded. She’d known it wouldn’t go to plan but had no choice.
She’d tried. Bought raised bowls, toys, binge-watched training videos. Thunder repaid her by turning his tail—literally. His loyalty was Oliver’s alone. The rest of them? Background noise.
In two weeks, he’d shredded hallway wallpaper, gnawed the armchair, murdered every cushion. And the *puddles*…
Oliver’s morning walks soon vanished, leaving Ingrid juggling feedings, paw cleanings, and mop duty while he piled on more mess.
Now, he flicked off the light and rolled away from her in bed. Probably he’d wiped the puddle—she’d heard the hoover. But she’d bet the sink and table were still a disaster.
And tomorrow? Repeat.
*Oliver,* she turned to face him. *Since Thunder, I’m not living. I’m surviving.*
He didn’t stir. Pretending to sleep.
*I walk him at dawn because you’re snoring. I skip lunch to walk him. I walk him after work because I’m home first. I brush, refill water, do *your* job. And what do I get? Your grumbling and his growling. Fair?*
Oliver sighed. No defence. The kids? Lost interest after three days.
*You’re overreacting. He’s not that bad.*
Her lips thinned. This time, she wouldn’t fold.
*I’ve had enough. Choose. Me or the dog.*
He stared at the ceiling, then stood and packed a bag.
*I don’t abandon friends. We’ll stay at the cottage. Cool off,* he said, clipping Thunder’s lead.
She let him go. Watched the back she’d once rubbed at night become a stranger’s.
The door clicked shut. She scoffed. Twenty years married, and *now* he grows principles? *Friends* matter, but family’s disposable?
Then—quiet. No dawn alarms for walks. No food bowls. No checking floors for surprises.
Bitter. And freeing.
*…Three months later,* she caught herself breathing easy. Not just from the vanished dog stench, but the absence of waiting—for Oliver to listen, to clean, to *care*.
The kids missed him but adapted.
*Mum, can I have friends over now?* her daughter asked.
*Course. No one’ll lunge at them.*
Her son left his bike in the hall—no teeth marks on the tyres. A fair trade.
They re-papered the walls. Not perfect, but better than tattered scraps. She trashed the gnawed blankets, bought new curtains—warm amber.
The flat exhaled with her.
*Mum, you’re off tomorrow?* her son asked over breakfast.
*Nearly. Quick visit to Gran, then all yours.*
She smiled. Weekends were *hers* now.
Meanwhile, Oliver wasn’t celebrating.
The cottage—barely used except for barbecues—was draughty, the taps spat rust, and the loo was outside.
At first, he romanticised it. Man and dog against the world. Thunder, his noble sacrifice. Proof he could be responsible.
But Thunder remained Thunder.
He howled when left, stole socks, chewed furniture, refused the garden but relieved himself at the door if Oliver wasn’t up in ten seconds.
*Sleep* vanished. Thunder hogged the bed, snored in his ear. Oliver felt less like a principled man and more like a sleep-deprived dad to a furry toddler.
*You absolute menace,* he groaned, mopping the entryway. *Why me?*
One bleak day, he called Seb—the friend who’d started this.
*So… how’s it going?* Seb ventured.
Oliver hesitated. *Be honest. You knew he was a nightmare, didn’t you?*
*Well… yeah. Drove me mad. Ten puddles a day, chewed wires. I was a wreck. But you—wife, kids, someone’s always home. Thought he’d settle better.*
*Cheers. Really stitched me up there.*
He hung up. Thunder gnawed his fourth slipper. Oliver tugged the blanket closer, stared out the window.
He returned like he’d just popped out for milk. Rang the bell, grinning sheepishly.
*Hi. Just… missed you.*
Ingrid leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. The flat smelled of apple pie, her calming music humming. She stepped aside—slowly.
*Come in then. Rude to leave guests on the step.*
Over tea, tension clung. She stayed silent. He fidgeted.
*Look, we… mishandled things. You were stressed. I was wrapped up with Thunder.* He cleared his throat. *Found him a home, by the way. Neighbours’ guard dog.*
She tilted her head. *You really think the dog was the problem?*
He shrugged. *I’ve changed. Realised a lot.*
*I didn’t *realise*. I *lived*. And I’m doing just fine without you.*
He left empty-handed. Three months later, they divorced. Nothing to split—the flat was hers. The kids, grown enough, stayed but still saw him.
One evening, she invited Angela—her uni mate, well-versed in the saga.
*I used to bend over backwards, terrified of losing him,* Ingrid mused. *Now? I don’t even know what I was afraid of.*
Angela sipped her coffee. *Because you carried the family. He just added weight. Now you’re living for you—especially once Andy’s off to uni.*
Ingrid nodded, mostly to herself. She’d known, just hadn’t admitted it. Putting herself first had been terrifying. Now?
Now she cradled her tea, warm against her palms, and watched raindrops race down the window. Outside, strangers hunched under umbrellas. Inside, it was quiet. And hers.
