“A Pig in a Poke”
“You’re telling me this mutt means more to you than the kids?!” Ingrid snapped, scrubbing the fifth puddle off the kitchen tiles that day.
The rug was long gone. After realising even shop-bought cleaners were useless against the stubborn habit of marking territory, she’d rolled it up and chucked it in the bin.
But it wasn’t just the rug. Her husband, Clive, 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. The table was strewn with crumbs, a coffee-stained mug, and an open jam jar with a spoon sticking out. The floor? A battlefield of stuffing and the shredded remains of a plush dinosaur.
And of course, it was Ingrid’s job to clean it all up.
“No need to shout,” Clive muttered, rummaging through the fridge. “He’s just a dog. Still settling in.”
Ingrid straightened up, the irritation of weeks bubbling over. She narrowed her eyes and thrust the wet cloth at him.
“Brilliant. Then *you* clean up after him. Remind me—he’s just a dog. I’m just your wife. Just the mother of your children. And we, your *just* family, are drowning in his mess and stench!”
She kicked the stuffing aside and marched to the bedroom, sidestepping the culprit. Thunder, a hulking grey beast with mournful eyes, sat in the doorway, watching. No whining, no guilt. As if he’d done nothing wrong.
She remembered how it started…
…Two months ago, Clive came home with this shaggy bundle of chaos.
“Dave’s moving abroad,” he’d begun. “Says taking the dog isn’t an option. So I thought… Thunder needs a family. And the kids could learn responsibility. It’ll be great.”
Clive had grinned like he’d saved the world. Ingrid, meanwhile, felt like he’d adopted a child without consulting her.
“Right. Fine. Suppose he stays. But who’s walking him? Feeding him? Cleaning up?” She already knew the answer.
“We’ll share. You get home earlier, so you could handle the walks?”
She’d sighed but nodded. She’d guessed it wouldn’t go to plan, but what choice did she have?
Spoiler: it didn’t go to plan.
Ingrid tried. Bought toys, raised bowls, even watched training videos. Thunder responded by turning his tail—literally and figuratively. Clive was his person. The rest of them? Annoying extras.
In two weeks, Thunder chewed the hallway wallpaper, gnawed the armchair, and destroyed every kitchen chair cushion. As for the “presents” he left around the house…
At first, Clive managed morning walks. Soon, *all* duties fell to Ingrid. Feeding, brushing, washing muddy paws… Clive just added to the mess.
Now, he flicked off the light and turned his back, settling into bed. Sure, he’d probably wiped up the puddle. She’d heard the hoover. But she’d bet her last quid the sink and table were still a disaster.
And tomorrow? Same story.
“Clive,” she said, facing him. “Since Thunder arrived, I’m not living. I’m surviving.”
He didn’t stir. Pretending to sleep, though she knew better.
“I walk him at dawn because you’re asleep. I walk him on my lunch break. I walk him after work because I’m home first. I clean the fur, refill his water, do *your* jobs. And what do I get? Your grumbling and his growling. Is that fair?”
Clive sighed. No argument. The kids had lost interest after three days. Now they barely patted him in passing.
“You’re overreacting. He’s not *that* bad.”
Ingrid clenched her jaw. This time, she wouldn’t back down.
“Pick. Me or the dog.”
Clive rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling like a philosopher, then stood and packed a bag.
“Don’t abandon friends. We’ll stay at the cottage. You’ll cool off,” he said, grabbing Thunder’s lead.
She let him go. Watched his back—the one she’d once rubbed at night—now a stranger’s.
The door clicked shut. She snorted. Twenty years married, and *now* he grew principles. Won’t abandon friends, but family? Fine.
Then—quiet. No dawn alarms for walks. No bedtime bowl refills. No morning minefields.
Bitter, but freeing.
…Three months later, Ingrid breathed easier. Not just from the vanished dog smell, but the absence of that suffocating *waiting*. Waiting for Clive to listen. To clean up.
The kids missed him, but no drama. They adjusted.
“Mum, can I have friends over now?” her daughter asked.
“Course. No one’s gnawing their ankles.”
Her son left his bike in the hall again—no teeth in the tyres. A small price.
They re-wallpapered. Crooked, but better than shreds. She tossed the gnawed blankets, bought new curtains. Warm, muted orange.
The flat sighed in relief.
“Mum, you’re off tomorrow, yeah?” her son asked over breakfast.
“Nearly. Quick visit to Gran, then the day’s yours.”
She smiled. Weekends were *hers* now.
Meanwhile, Clive wasn’t enjoying his “freedom.”
The cottage—barely used beyond summer BBQs—was freezing. Rusty taps, an outdoor loo.
At first, he saw it as romantic. Man and dog against the world. Thunder, a symbol of sacrifice. Proof he could be responsible.
But Thunder remained a dog.
He howled alone. Stole socks. Destroyed furniture. Refused to stay outside but *would* wee by the door if Clive didn’t sprint to open it in ten seconds.
“Sleep” left Clive’s vocabulary. Thunder hogged the bed, snored in his ear. Nights felt less like freedom, more like parenting a hairy, oversized toddler.
“You mangy brute,” he grumbled, mopping the latest puddle. “Why me?”
One bad day, he called Dave—the friend who’d started this.
“So, how’s it going?” Dave ventured.
Clive hesitated, then asked the question burning in his mind.
“Did you *know* he was this difficult?”
“…Yeah. Drove me mad. Ten puddles a day. Chewed wires. Figured with your lot home more, he’d settle.”
“Cheers. Really stitched me up.”
Clive hung up. Watched Thunder shred another slipper. Fourth pair. He tugged the blanket closer, stared out the window.
He returned as casually as popping out for milk. Rang the bell, grinning awkwardly.
“Hi. Just… missed you.”
Ingrid didn’t move. The flat smelled of apple pie. Soft music played.
“Come in, then. Rude to leave guests on the step.”
They drank tea in stiff silence.
“Listen, about before… I’ve rehomed Thunder. To neighbours. He’s guarding their yard now.”
She tilted her head. Said nothing.
“Thought maybe… things could go back to normal?”
“You really think the dog was the problem?”
Clive shrugged, forcing a smile.
“I’ve changed. Had time to think—”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was *living*. And realising I’m fine without you.”
He left empty-handed. Three months later, they divorced. Nothing to split—the flat was hers. The kids, grown, stayed but still saw him.
One evening, Ingrid invited Angela—an old uni friend—over.
“Funny… I used to fear divorce like the end of the world,” Ingrid mused. “Now? I don’t get what scared me.”
Angela sipped her coffee.
“You carried the family. He just added weight. Now you’re lighter. Live for yourself—especially once Andy’s off to uni.”
Ingrid nodded, mostly to herself. She’d known it long before admitting it.
Now? Just a warm mug in her hands, rain streaking the window. The house quiet. Cosy. *Hers*.
