**A Right Pig’s Dinner**
*”Are you seriously saying that bloody dog matters more than your own children?”* Ingrid snapped, scrubbing yet another puddle off the kitchen tiles—the fifth that day.
The rug was long gone. After realising no supermarket cleaner could defeat the stubborn habit of marking territory, she’d rolled it up and dumped it in the bin.
But it wasn’t just the rug. Her husband, Keith, had opened a tin of sweetcorn, dumped the contents into a bowl, and left both the empty tin and the dirty dish in the sink. Crumbs littered the table alongside a coffee-stained mug and an open jar of jam with a spoon sticking out. The floor was strewn with stuffing and scraps of a torn-up plush dinosaur.
And of course, it fell to Ingrid to clean it all up.
*”No need to shout,”* Keith murmured, rummaging through the fridge. *”It’s just a dog. He’s still settling in.”*
Ingrid straightened, irritation simmering in her eyes—weeks of it, bottled up. She narrowed her gaze and thrust the damp cloth into his hands.
*”Brilliant. Then *you* clean up after him. Just a dog, is it? Well, I’m just your wife. Just the mother of your children. And *we*, your *family*, are suffocating under his mess!”*
She kicked the stuffing aside and stormed toward the bedroom, sidestepping the culprit. Thunder—a hulking, grey brute with doleful eyes—sat in the doorway, watching. No whining, no guilt. As if *he* hadn’t done a thing wrong.
She remembered how it started…
…Two months ago, Keith had come home with that shaggy bundle of chaos.
*”Steve’s moving abroad,”* he’d begun. *”Says taking the dog’s not an option. So I thought… Thunder needs a family. Kids could learn responsibility. It’d be good for them.”*
Keith had beamed like he’d saved the world. Ingrid, meanwhile, felt like he’d adopted a child without consulting her.
*”Fine. But who walks him? Feeds him? Cleans up?”* She already knew the answer.
*”We’ll share it. Though, about walks… You finish work earlier. Mind taking those?”*
She’d sighed but nodded. A sinking feeling told her it wouldn’t go to plan—but what choice did she have?
She’d been right.
Ingrid tried. Bought toys, raised bowls, watched training videos. Thunder responded by turning his back—literally. His loyalty was to Keith. The rest of them? Unwanted extras.
In two weeks, he’d shredded the hallway wallpaper, gnawed the armchair, and demolished every cushion. And the *accidents*—countless.
At first, Keith walked him in the mornings. Soon, *she* did it all: walks, brushing, feeding. Keith just added to the mess.
Now, he flicked off the light and rolled over, back to her. She’d heard the hoover—he’d *maybe* cleaned the puddle. But the sink and table? Still a sty.
And tomorrow, it’d start again.
*”Keith,”* she said, facing him. *”Since Thunder came, I’m not living. I’m surviving.”*
He didn’t move. Pretending to sleep, though she knew he heard.
*”I walk him mornings because you’re asleep. I skip my lunch break to walk him. I walk him evenings because I’m home first. I do *your* job. And what do I get? Snarls—from *both* of you. Is that fair?”*
Keith sighed. No argument. The kids had lost interest after three days. Now, they barely patted him in passing.
*”You’re exaggerating. He’s not that bad.”*
Ingrid pressed her lips together. Another brick wall. This time, she wouldn’t back down.
*”I’ve had enough,”* she said. *”Choose. Me or the dog.”*
Keith rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. Then he got up, pulled on his jacket, and grabbed the lead.
*”I don’t abandon friends. We’ll stay at the cottage. Cool off.”*
She didn’t stop him. Watched him go—the same back she’d once rubbed at night. Now a stranger’s. Just like the dog.
The door clicked shut. She almost laughed. Twenty years married, and *now* he grew principles? *Friends* mattered—but his family?
Then—quiet. No early alarms for walks. No bowls to fill. No watching her step.
Bitter. But lighter.
…Three months later, Ingrid breathed easier. Not just from the missing dog hair—but the absence of waiting. No more hoping Keith would listen. Or wipe crumbs.
The kids missed him but weren’t shattered. They adjusted.
*”Mum, can I have friends over now?”* her daughter asked.
*”Course. No one’s going to jump at them.”*
Her son left his bike in the hall—no teeth marks on the tyres. A small price.
They redecorated. Wonky, but better than shredded wallpaper. She tossed chewed blankets, bought new curtains—warm, muted orange.
The flat exhaled too.
*”Mum, you’re off tomorrow, yeah?”* her son asked over breakfast.
*”Mostly. Quick visit to Nan. Then the day’s yours.”*
She smiled. Weekends—finally *hers*.
Meanwhile, Keith wasn’t relishing his “freedom.”
The cottage—barely used, just for barbecues—was draughty, with rust-stained taps and an outdoor loo. At first, he saw it as romantic. Man and dog against the world. Thunder, a symbol of sacrifice.
But Thunder was still a dog.
He howled when left alone. Stole socks. Wrecked furniture. Refused to stay outside yet *always* needed the loo *immediately* at dawn.
“*Bloody mutt,”* Keith muttered, mopping the latest puddle. *”Why me?”*
One bleak day, he called Steve.
*”So… how’s it going?”* Steve ventured.
Silence. Then—
*”Tell me truthfully. You knew he was a nightmare.”*
*”Well… yeah. I was at my wits’ end. Puddles *everywhere*. Chewed wires. You had the family, though—someone home. Thought it’d be easier.”*
*”Cheers,”* Keith rasped. *”You really stitched me up.”*
He hung up. Thunder gnawed another slipper—his fourth pair. Keith tugged the blanket closer, staring out the window.
He returned casually, like popping out for milk. Rang the bell, stood awkwardly.
*”Hi,”* he said when Ingrid opened the door. *”Just… thought I’d drop by. Missed you.”*
She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. The flat smelled of apple pie. Soft music played. She stepped aside—slowly.
*”Come in, then. Rude to leave guests on the step.”*
Over tea, tension hung thick. Ingrid stayed silent. Keith fidgeted.
*”Look, it got messy. You were stressed. I… was stubborn. I rehomed Thunder, by the way. Neighbours took him. Guard dog now.”*
Ingrid tilted her head. Said nothing.
*”So… maybe we’re good now? Since he’s gone.”*
*”You really think the dog was the problem?”*
He shrugged, forcing a smile.
*”I’ve… changed. Had time to think—”*
*”I didn’t *think*,”* she cut in. *”I *lived*. And realised I’m fine without you.”*
He left empty-handed. Three months later, they divorced. The flat was hers. The kids stayed but still saw him.
One evening, Ingrid invited Angela over—a uni friend who knew the whole story.
*”Funny,”* Ingrid mused. *”I used to bend over backwards, terrified of losing him. Thought divorce was the end.”*
*”Because *you* carried the family,”* Angela said, sipping coffee. *”He just added weight. Now? You’re lighter.”*
Ingrid nodded. She’d known—just hadn’t let herself admit it.
Now, she cradled her tea, warm against her fingers, and watched rain streak the window. Outside, people hurried under umbrellas.
Inside, it was quiet. And finally—*hers*.
