Am I starting to irritate my own husband..?
For eight long years, everything went perfectly. But by our ninth year, suddenly everything I did seemed to annoy Tom, especially me, Emily.
He started coming home late, barely acknowledging me before grabbing dinner, mumbling something unintelligible, and settling down in front of his laptop to play endless shooting games. When he did look my way, it was as if he had a raging toothache that ran through his entire body. Increasingly, he would dryly announce that he was spending the night at his mothers.
One evening, unable to take it anymore, I phoned my mother-in-law:
Mrs. Stephens, is Tom with you?
With syrupy sweetness, she replied, A good wife, Emily dear, always knows where her husband is.
I even bought a book called How to Keep Your Husband, awkwardly explaining to the cashier that it was for a friend. The girl gave me a pitying look edged with disgust.
Eventually, the penny droppedif someone could write an entire book about keeping husbands, just how many have they needed to keep in order to clock up that experience? And if theyre so good at keeping husbands, where do they keep getting new ones from, assuming the old ones are still kept?
One hundred and fifty pages of handy advice, from cultivating a cosy home, to fancy lingerie, to showing interest in your husbands work. I even mastered the art of baking with yeast, something that had always confounded me. But Tom still didnt gravitate homeward. Apparently, I was supposed to knead the bread in sexy underwear. Or maybe turn up to his mothers place like that, just to find him there.
Attempting to share his interests was another dead end: on my very first try, I cleared a gaming level Tom had struggled with for over a week. He was not pleased; warmth did not return to our marriage.
Out of sheer despondency, I went shopping for winter boots. Instead, I came home with a rotund puppy bought for the same price. One look at him, and I realised Id always wanted a dognot some yappy handbag thing, but a proper, real dog.
The woman at the market, who introduced herself as a breeder, asked, You know anything about dogs, love?
I shook my head.
Well, hes a golden retriever, she pronounced grandly.
When I questioned his not-so-golden fur, she replied indulgently, Hell turn gold as he grows, very on trend. Pedigreemum and dad both championsa right looker hell be! Got all the papers. Practically giving him away.
She named her price.
I didnt have enough on me, but the kindly breeder accepted what I could pay.
At least someone would be properly excited to see me walk through the door. Boots arent going to look up at you adoringly, wag their tail, or fetch your slippers in their mouth.
That evening, Tom happened to make a rare appearance at home and gawked, What on earth is that?
Golden retriever, pedigreeand a bargain, papers all in order, I assured him.
According to the paperwork, the puppy was apparently an Alapaha Blue Blood Bulldog. The breeders phone turned out to be the number for a building contractors office, where questions about dogs were met with curses.
Do you even have eyes? Where, please tell me, is there even a retriever or a bulldog in this creature? How much did you pay? How much?! Unbelievable!
The puppy disliked Toms shouting and attempted a menacing growl, but instead managed to produce an impressively large puddle.
Dear God, who am I married to? Tom moaned at the ceiling, returning to his computer. He scowled at me as if shooting monsters in the game was nothing compared to his desire to obliterate me.
By morning, the puppy had not only made himself at home but had also thoroughly soaked Toms trainers and gnawed through his dress shoes.
That was the final straw.
Suddenly, everything about me was loathsome and intolerable: my face, my clothes, my personality, even my thoughts. Not to mention the fact that I earn twice as much as Tomobviously, just to humiliate him. And the children I dont have.
But Tom, youre the one who didnt want children, I protested softly.
Thats because what sort of idiots would you and I raise? Morons just like you! Who would ever want someone like you?!
The puppy listened to this tirade, then waddled over on his chunky little legs and tried to nip Toms ankle.
Stunned, I said nothing. I held my breath, watching Tom hurl his things into a suitcase.
Thirty years old. Life over. The end. Done. Now what?
Going on seemed pointless, but try explaining that to a puppy. There he sat, gnawing my sock, the picture of a starved, neglected muttnot a care in the world for my heartbreak. He just wanted food, water, belly rubs, and endless praise.
The puppy, whom I named George, grew quickly, but despite his hound-of-the-Baskervilles bulk, he was useless as a guard dog. The biting reflex just never developed; affection and licking, however, he had down to an art.
On cold evenings, Id walk George for hours. One December, with rain and snow turning the streets into sludge, workmen dug trenches in our estate. George managed to fall into one and whimpered so pitifully that I leapt in after him, barely managing not to break my legs. The pit was deep, slick with clay, and it was near midnightId left my phone at home.
At first I was too embarrassed to call for help, but after multiple failed escape attempts, I yelled Help! at the top of my lungs. Eventually, two goth lads appeared under the gloomy glow of a lamppostlooking positively corpse-like. Instead of performing a ritual sacrifice, they called the fire brigade and waited, cackling over some dark joke.
George was hoisted out first, promptly licking everyonegoths and firemen alikeinto a slobbery mess. Then it was my turn, frozen to the core, too numb even to feel embarrassed.
The fire chief lectured me furiously about brainless dogs, idiotic owners, lazy council workers, and shoddy diggers. He even had a pop at the government. George, unfazed, danced around him, determined to lick his nose mid-jumpand succeeded, giving the poor man a nosebleed.
So there we were, by 1am: a mud-encrusted but jubilant George, a shaking, muddy Emily, two goth boys splattered with dog hair, and a fire chief dabbing blood from his nose.
Lady, you might want to actually train your monster, the battered chief suggested.
I do try, but hes a bit wild.
So am I, one goth told the other, then burst out laughing.
I live in that flat, I chattered, teeth knocking together. Come and clean up?
Dont dawdle, the firemen told their boss. You look like something out of a horror flick.
I ought to dig myself a hole, my friend Rachel joked afterwards. By the time the council sorts out these trenches, youll be an old maid!
P.S. My kids? Hardly little Einsteins. Just ordinary, cheerful, clever youngsters: Jamie and Lucy. When they started Year 1, they had to present their family.
Our dad saves the world! And our mum works with computers! Jamie piped up.
Quiet Lucy added, And our dog knows how to watch telly!
Sometimes, the road to happiness leads through disaster and muddy holes. Life may throw you into a trench now and then, but sometimes, its the struggle outalongside those who stand by you, even a muddy dogthat teaches you how to love yourself again.
