Backstabber’s Betrayal

“Do you mean to tell me this bloody hound means more to you than your own children?” Ingrid snapped, scrubbing at the fifth puddle of the day off the kitchen tiles.

The rug was long gone. After it became clear even shop-bought cleaners couldn’t stop the stubborn habit of marking territory, she’d rolled it up and tossed it out with the bins.

But the rug wasn’t the only casualty. Clive had opened a tin of beans, dumped them into a bowl, and abandoned both—tin and dirty dish—in the sink. The table was littered with crumbs, a coffee-stained mug, and an open jar of marmalade with a spoon sticking out. The floor was strewn with stuffing and the shredded remains of a plush dinosaur.

And of course, it all fell to Ingrid to clean.

“Don’t shout,” Clive muttered, rummaging in the fridge. “He’s just a dog. Still settling in.”

Ingrid straightened, staring at him with irritation that had been simmering for weeks. She narrowed her eyes and thrust the damp cloth into his hands.

“Brilliant. Then *you* clean up after him. Just a dog, is he? And I’m just your wife. Just the mother of your children. And we—just your *family*—are drowning in piss and filth!”

She kicked the torn stuffing aside and stormed toward the bedroom, sidestepping the culprit of this “celebration.” Thunder, a hulking grey beast with mournful eyes, sat in the doorway watching. No whining, no hiding. As if guilt had never crossed his mind.

She remembered how it started…

Two months ago, Clive had walked in with this shaggy bundle of chaos.

“Dave’s moving. For good,” he’d said. “Says taking the dog’s impossible—too much hassle. So I thought… Thunder needs a home. And the kids could learn responsibility, love animals. It’s perfect.”

Clive had beamed like he’d saved the world. Ingrid, meanwhile, had felt the opposite—like her husband had adopted a stranger without so much as a word.

“Right. Fine. Suppose he stays. But who walks him? Feeds him? Cleans up after him?” She already knew the answer.

“All of us. We’re a family. Though… the walks might be tricky. You finish work earlier. Mind taking that on?”

She sighed but nodded. She knew it wouldn’t go to plan, but what choice did she have? She just prayed her instincts were wrong.

They weren’t.

Ingrid tried. Bought toys, raised bowls, watched training videos late into the night. Thunder responded by turning his back—literally and figuratively. His master was Clive. The rest of them? Unwelcome extras.

In two weeks, Thunder peeled wallpaper, gnawed the armrests, shredded every cushion. And the *puddles*…

At first, Clive at least walked him in the mornings. Soon, even that vanished. Ingrid was left with the lot—brushing, washing, feeding. Clive just made more work.

Now, he flicked off the light and rolled over, back to her. Settling in to sleep. Sure, he might’ve wiped up the puddle—she’d heard the hoover—but she’d bet their savings the sink and table were still a mess.

And tomorrow? Same story.

“Listen, Clive,” she said, turning to face him. “Since Thunder came, I haven’t lived. I’ve survived.”

He didn’t stir. Pretending to sleep. But she knew better.

“I walk him at dawn because you’re still snoring. I cut my lunch break short to walk him. I walk him at night because I’m the one home. I brush his fur, change his water. Do *your* job. And what do I get? Your grumbling and his growling. Is that fair?”

Clive sighed. No argument. The burden was hers. The kids had been curious—for about three days. Now they barely patted him in passing.

“You’re exaggerating. He’s not that bad.”

She pressed her lips thin. Another brick wall. But this time, she wouldn’t back down.

“I’ve had enough,” she said. “Choose. Me or the dog.”

Clive rolled onto his back, arms folded, staring at the ceiling like a philosopher. Then he got up and started packing.

She watched in silence as he zipped his coat and grabbed the lead.

“I don’t abandon friends. We’ll stay at the cottage. Let you cool off,” he said softly before leaving.

She didn’t stop him. Just watched his back—the one she used to stroke at night. Now a stranger’s back. A stranger’s dog.

The door clicked shut. At first, she scoffed. Twenty years married, and she’d never known him to stand his ground. Oh, he wouldn’t abandon *friends*—just his family?

Then, quiet. No alarms for dawn walks. No scrubbing bowls. No stepping carefully in the morning.

Bitter, yet light.

Three months passed. Sometimes Ingrid caught herself breathing deep. Not just because the stink of wet dog was gone—but because it was *easier*. As if Thunder had taken that heavy, sticky waiting with him. No more hoping Clive would listen or even clear his plate.

The kids missed him, but they were old enough not to make it a tragedy. They adjusted.

“Mum… can I have friends over now?” her daughter asked on day three.

“Course. No one’s going to chase them.”

Her son left his bike in the hall again—no teeth sunk into tyres. A small price.

They re-papered the walls. Not perfectly, but better than shredded scraps. She tossed the chewed blankets, bought new curtains—warm ochre, soft.

The flat breathed out.

“Mum, you’ve got tomorrow off, right?” her son asked over breakfast.

“Nearly. Just a quick visit to Gran. Then the day’s ours.”

The thought made her smile. *Weekends*—actual weekends—were back.

Clive, meanwhile, was *not* revelling in his freedom.

The cottage—kept for summer barbecues—was far from cosy. Drafty windows, rust-red water, an outdoor loo.

At first, he saw it as noble. Romantic, even. Man and dog against the world. Misunderstood but unbroken. Thunder was meant to be a symbol—proof he could be responsible.

But Thunder remained a *dog*.

He howled when left. Stole socks. Chewed furniture. Refused to stay outside but happily relieved himself by the door if Clive didn’t sprint to open it in ten seconds.

“Sleep” vanished from Clive’s vocabulary. Thunder invaded the bed, shoved, snored. Nights felt less like freedom and more like parenting a hairy, overgrown infant.

“You mange-ridden menace,” Clive grumbled, mopping another puddle. “*Why* me?”

One bad day, he rang Dave—the friend who started it all.

“So… how’s it going?” Dave ventured.

Clive hesitated, then asked the question haunting him:

“Be honest. You knew he was a nightmare, didn’t you?”

“…Yeah. Wore me out, truth be told. Left puddles like a broken tap. Chewed through wires. Was at my wit’s end. But you…” Dave paused. “You’ve got the wife, kids. Someone’s always home. Thought it might be easier for *him*.”

“Cheers,” Clive rasped. “You really dropped me in it.”

He hung up. Thunder gnawed a slipper—his fourth pair. Clive dragged the heater closer and stared out the window.

His return was casual, like he’d just nipped out for milk. He rang the bell, standing there with an awkward smile, as if everything would snap back to normal.

“Hi,” he said when Ingrid opened the door. “Just… thought I’d stop by. Missed you.”

She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. The flat smelled of apple pie. Soft music played. After a beat, she stepped aside.

“Well, come in. Rude to leave guests on the step.”

They drank tea in stiff silence.

“Look… it got ugly. You were stressed. I had Thunder,” he began. “Wanted to say sorry. Found him a home, by the way. Neighbour’s got him chained up now, for guarding.”

Ingrid tilted her head but stayed quiet. Clive shifted uncomfortably.

“Thought maybe… now he’s gone, things could go back to normal?”

“You *really* think the dog was the problem?”

He shrugged, forcing a smile.

“I’ve changed. Had time to think—”

“I *didn’t* think. I *lived*,” she cut in. “Found out I do just fine without you.”

He left with nothing. Three months later, they divorced. Nothing to split—the flat was hers. The kids, grown, stayed but still saw him. Ingrid didn’t stop them.

One evening, she invited Angela over—an old uni friend who knew the whole story.

“Funny…And as the rain tapped gently against the window, Ingrid realised she’d finally stopped waiting for life to be happy—she was simply living it.

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Backstabber’s Betrayal