“He’s the Only One Who Understands Me”
“What’s for lunch?” Oliver asked, sniffing the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“I am. Biscuits for Lord. Turkey and oats,” Emily replied proudly, pulling a tray from the oven. “He’s been struggling lately. Shedding season, grooming stress, mood swings. Thought I’d spoil him a bit.”
She bustled around the table in a short dressing gown the colour of clotted cream. At her feet, Lord—a small, fluffy Pomeranian with the adoring eyes of a cult follower—bounced and yipped excitedly.
Oliver didn’t share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, but it seemed today’s meal was only for Lord.
“Right, brilliant,” he muttered. “So what are *we* eating?”
“Dunno. Fry yourself some eggs, or order something. You always say you don’t care what we eat anyway.”
He didn’t argue—because he *had* said that. Arguing over food felt petty.
Emily had gotten Lord long before she met Oliver. At nineteen, her mother had died. Her father, clueless about comforting his daughter, had simply brought home a puppy.
Since then, Lord had become her world. When she moved in with Oliver—or rather, insisted he let her into his two-bed London flat—Lord went first, naturally. Quite literally, in a massive carrier on the front seat of the taxi, close to the heater so he wouldn’t get cold.
Oliver hadn’t minded back then. He’d found it sweet, the way she talked to the dog, fussed over him. But three years later, that doting affection had started to resemble an unhealthy obsession. And it didn’t extend to anyone else.
Silently, Oliver ate instant noodles by the sink. His mother, Patricia, arrived right on cue—as if she could *sense* when her son’s home life was unravelling. She walked in with a carrier bag holding a tub of soup, a packet of cottage cheese, and a foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“So, how’s married life?” she chirped from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Emily’s baking treats for Lord again.”
“Oh, *Lord* again. Well, at least it’s not for guests. I still remember the time I accidentally tried his *delicacies*,” she joked, lacing her words with poison.
Emily pretended not to notice. She stepped aside for her mother-in-law, beaming.
“It’s turkey biscuits today! Want one? No liver—different recipe.”
“No, thanks. Roasted a chicken this morning. For *humans*,” Patricia said, marching straight to the fridge.
Her sharp eyes scanned its contents. Yoghurts, milk, a jar of jam—the same one she’d given them six months ago. Meanwhile, an entire shelf was dedicated to Lord’s meals, neatly stacked in labelled containers with sticker hearts.
“Right. Priorities,” Patricia muttered, shutting the door.
Oliver sighed and headed for the exit—early, hungry, with a leaden heart. He kept telling himself these were small things, that it’d all smooth over eventually. But something wasn’t working.
A year passed, and a lot changed. For one, the family had grown—Emily had given birth to a boy, Thomas. At first, his grandmother hoped this would set Emily straight.
Reality quickly sobered her up.
Patricia heard the screams from the hallway—choked, desperate wails. A child’s.
“What’s going on here?!” she shouted, barging past Emily.
Her heart dropped. Thomas lay on the bed, beet-red from crying, his nappy twisted under him. Worst of all, Lord was there too, licking the baby’s face like some twisted comfort.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Patricia snarled, grabbing the dog by the scruff.
Lord snapped, thrashing. Emily scurried in after her, lips pursed. When she saw what was happening, she yanked the dog back, clutching him to her chest.
“Why are you shouting? He was just comforting him! Poor Lord’s had a *day*—vet visit today!” She shielded the Pomeranian with her hands. “You scared him!”
“*He’s* the one suffering?!” Patricia’s voice trembled with rage. “And the baby—what, just singing, is he?”
Emily rolled her eyes and reluctantly approached Thomas. She glanced at him with dull indifference before turning toward the kitchen.
“I’ll warm his bottle.”
Patricia picked up the baby. His nappy was soaked. An empty bottle lay on the floor—probably a spare—its teat chewed. Thomas didn’t even *have* teeth yet…
That left Lord. Unless Emily had gnawed it herself. Patricia wouldn’t put it past her.
She carried the baby to the kitchen, where Emily was sluggishly mixing formula. Thomas’ sobs continued, but his mother didn’t so much as glance back.
“Why is he on formula?” Patricia demanded.
“You want me breastfeeding? Stuck on those awful diets? No thanks. Cabbage, cheese, oranges—all off-limits. I love myself too much for that.”
“But not him?” Patricia’s tone was ice.
Emily slowly turned. Her pupils were pinpricks, fists clenched. Lord nuzzled her leg, but it didn’t calm her.
“Listen. You waltz in here with your lectures. Want to write me a manual on how to live?”
“I came because my grandson’s screaming his lungs out while you’re cooking *porridge* for your dog! Are you a mother or what?”
Emily slammed the bottle into the sink. Lord yelped and cowered under the table.
“Who the *hell* are you to tell me what to do?! This is *my* home, *my* child, *my* Lord!”
“Seems like Lord comes first! You’re *sick*—a dog matters more than your own baby!”
“At least he doesn’t scream nonstop,” Emily spat before storming off.
The front door opened. Oliver walked in, took one look at his mother holding Thomas, then Emily’s twisted expression. He’d walked into a warzone.
“What happened?”
“Ask your wife,” Patricia said, voice dangerously quiet. “Thomas was soaked, starving. The dog was licking his face *after* licking its own… *bits*. And *she’s* making *Lord’s* dinner. She’s unhinged.”
“Mum, she’s just… tired. You know how it is. The baby, chores, no sleep… Postpartum stuff.”
“This isn’t depression,” Patricia cut in. “It’s neglect. It won’t end well, son.”
They cobbled together a bottle for Thomas. Emily sat alone in the bedroom, cradling Lord like a baby. It wasn’t cute anymore.
Six months later, Oliver was working late—sometimes by necessity, sometimes to avoid home. The flat was steeped in thick, heavy silence. No more shouting. Emily didn’t even raise her voice now—just looked *through* Oliver, like he was just some flatmate.
That day was like any other. Lord crunched his gourmet kibble, Oliver gulped down a banana before dashing off to work—early, thanks to an urgent call. Emily had actually slept—though she’d only spared Thomas a begrudging “*finally*” for not crying through the night.
Usually, Oliver watched Thomas while Emily walked Lord in the mornings. But today, she hadn’t had time. Half an hour later, the Pomeranian whined at the door. Time to go.
Thomas was asleep in his playpen. Without hesitation, Emily threw on a hoodie and left with Lord—no need to bring the baby. If he woke up, he’d just scream. The longer he slept, the better.
The sky was overcast but mild. Lord sniffed around the grass while Emily scrolled through her feed. A post of a happy family read: *”Loyalty and care—that’s what matters most.”* She absentmindedly liked it.
Her priority was right beside her. Fluffy, with a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Thomas woke. His playpen was half under the kitchen table—space was tight. Trying to stand, he grabbed the tablecloth. A mug—Emily’s Mother’s Day gift—slid off. It didn’t break. But the tea inside was still hot.
Emily heard the screams from the hallway. She turned the key unhurriedly, stepped inside—then froze. Angry red splotches covered his arm. Dark stains blotched his white bedding. The mug lay nearby.
“Oh god,” she whispered, darting to Thomas.
He gasped between sobs. She first shut the kitchen door—*keep Lord out*—then tentatively lifted her son.
Five minutes later, Oliver returned—he’d forgotten his USB. The screams sent him sprinting inside. Emily was frantically digging through drawers for cream.
Oliver stopped dead. His face reddened.
“What *happened*?”
“He—I was only five minutes! With Lord! He was asleep!” Her voice shook—not from guilt, but from being caught.
“You left him alone… forOliver took one last look at his son’s tear-streaked face, then quietly packed a bag for them both, walking out without another word—because family shouldn’t come second to a dog.
