“You mean to tell me this bloody hound matters more to your own children?” Ingrid snapped, scrubbing yet another puddle off the tiles—the fifth one that day.
The kitchen rug was long gone. After shop-bought cleaners proved useless against the stubborn marking habit, she’d rolled it up and tossed it out with the rubbish.
But the rug was the least of it. Her husband had cracked open a tin of baked beans, dumped them into a bowl, and left both tin and dirty dish in the sink. The table was littered with crumbs, 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 plush dinosaur’s remains.
And who had to clean it all? Ingrid, of course.
“Don’t shout like that,” muttered Cyril, rummaging through the fridge. “He’s just a dog. Needs time to settle in.”
Ingrid straightened, the irritation that had been simmering for weeks sharp in her glare. She narrowed her eyes and thrust the wet cloth at him.
“Brilliant. Then *you* clean up after him. Remind me again—he’s just a dog, but I’m just your wife. Just the mother of your children. And we, your *just a family*, are choking on his mess and stench!”
She kicked the torn stuffing aside and stormed towards the bedroom, sidestepping the culprit himself. Thunder, a great grey beast with mournful eyes, sat square in the doorway, watching. No whining, no guilt—just staring as if he’d done nothing wrong.
She remembered how it began…
…Two months ago, Cyril had walked in with that shaggy bundle of trouble.
“Seb’s moving abroad,” he’d said brightly. “Says taking the dog’s impossible, too much hassle. But I thought—Thunder needs a family. Good for the kids, teaches responsibility. Yeah?”
He’d grinned like he’d single-handedly saved the world. Ingrid, meanwhile, felt the opposite—as though he’d adopted a stray without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Right. Suppose he stays. Who walks him? Feeds him? Cleans up?” She already knew the answer.
“We’ll share it. Family, innit? Though… you finish work earlier. You could do the walks?”
She’d sighed but nodded. A niggling voice warned it wouldn’t end well, but what choice did she have?
She’d been right.
Ingrid tried. Bought raised bowls, chewed through training videos at night. Thunder repaid her by turning tail—literally. His loyalty began and ended with Cyril; the rest of them were inconveniences.
In two weeks, he’d shredded hallway wallpaper, gnawed the arm of Cyril’s chair, disembowelled every kitchen cushion. The “accidents” were countless.
At first, Cyril did morning walks. Soon, even that stopped. Ingrid took over—brushing, washing paws, feeding. Meanwhile, Cyril added to the chaos.
Now, he just flicked off the light and flopped into bed, back to her. He’d mopped the puddle, maybe even hoovered. But she’d bet her last quid the sink and table were still a wreck.
And tomorrow? Same story.
“Listen, Cyril,” she finally said, facing him. “Since Thunder came, 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 snoring. I skip lunch to walk him. I walk him after work because I’m home first. I clean his hair, refill his water—*your* jobs. And what do I get? Your grumbling and his growling. Fair, is it?”
Cyril sighed. No defence. The kids had lost interest after three days. Now they barely patted him in passing.
“You’re blowing it up. He’s not that bad.”
Ingrid pressed her lips thin. Another brick wall. But this time, she wouldn’t skirt it.
“Enough,” she said. “Choose. Me or the dog.”
He rolled onto his back, arms folded, staring at the ceiling like a philosopher. Then he stood and packed a bag.
Ingrid watched silently as he zipped his coat and clipped Thunder’s lead on.
“I don’t abandon mates. We’ll stay at the cottage. Cool off a while,” he muttered on his way out.
She didn’t stop him. Just watched that broad back—the one she used to rub at night—walk away. A stranger’s back. A stranger’s dog.
The door clicked shut. At first, she scoffed. Twenty years married, and *now* he grew principles? “Won’t abandon mates,” but his family? Fine then.
Then—quiet. No more dawn alarms for walks. No scrubbing bowls at midnight. No checking the floor for surprises.
Bitter, and yet… light.
…Three months passed. Sometimes Ingrid caught herself breathing deep. Not just from the vanished dog smell—but ease, as if Thunder’s leaving took the weight of waiting with him. No more hoping Cyril would listen or wipe his own crumbs.
The kids missed him but didn’t make a drama. They adapted.
“Mum, can I have friends over now?” her daughter asked on day three.
“Course. Nobody’ll lunge at them.”
Her son left his bike in the hall again—no teeth in the tyres now. A small price.
They re-wallpapered. Crooked, but better than scraps. She binned the gnawed blankets, bought new curtains—warm amber, like honey.
The flat itself seemed to exhale.
“Mum, day off tomorrow?” her son asked over breakfast.
“Near enough. Just popping to Gran’s, then I’m yours.”
That made her smile. Proper days off, at last.
Meanwhile, Cyril wasn’t enjoying his “freedom.”
The cottage—owned more for barbecues than living—was draughty, the taps spat rust, and the loo was still outdoors.
At first, he saw it as an adventure. Poetic, even. Man and dog against the world. Thunder was meant to symbolise sacrifice—proof Cyril could be responsible.
But Thunder remained a dog.
He howled when left. Stole socks, wrecked furniture, refused to stay outside yet would piss by the door if Cyril didn’t sprint to open it within seconds of waking.
“Sleep” left Cyril’s vocabulary. Thunder hogged the bed, snored in his ear. Nights felt less like principled stands and more like parenting a hairy, oversized toddler.
“Mangy brute,” he grumbled once, mopping by the door. “What did I do to deserve this?”
On a particularly grim day, he rang Seb—the mate who’d started this circus.
“So… how’s it going?” Seb ventured.
Cyril paused, then asked what had gnawed at him for weeks: “Be straight. You knew he was a nightmare, didn’t you?”
“Well… yeah. Proper handful. Pissed everywhere while I was at work. Chewed through wires. Was at my wits’ end. But you’ve got the wife, kids… someone home more. Thought he’d cope better.”
“Cheers,” Cyril croaked. “Proper stitched me up, you did.”
He hung up, sighed at Thunder gnawing his fourth mangled slipper, then dragged the heater closer to bed, staring out the window.
He returned as casually as if he’d popped out for milk. Rang the bell, stood there with a sheepish grin, expecting everything to snap back to normal.
“Hiya,” he said when Ingrid answered. “Just… thought I’d drop by. Missed you.”
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The flat smelled of apple pie, her wordless music playing softly. After a beat, she stepped aside.
“Come in, then. Rude to leave guests on the step.”
They sipped tea in strained silence.
“Look, how it ended… that weren’t right. You were stressed. I was wrapped up with Thunder,” he said finally. “I’m sorry. Found him a home, by the way. Neighbours took him. Guard dog now.”
Ingrid tilted her head slightly but stayed quiet. Cyril fidgeted.
“Thought maybe… things could go back now? Since he’s gone.”
“You honestly think the dog was the problem?”
He shrugged, forcing a smile.
“I’ve changed. Had time to think—”
“I *lived*,” she cut in. “And realised I’m just fine without you.”
He left empty-handed. Three months later, they divorced. Nothing to split—the flat was hers, the kids stayed but still saw him. No hard feelings.
One evening, she invited Angela over—an old uni friend who knew the whole saga.
“Funny… I used to bend over backwards, terrified of losing him. Thought divorce meant failure,” Ingrid mused. “Now? Can’t fathom why I was so scared.”
Angela sipped her coffee.
“That’s because you carried the lot. He just piled onAnd as the rain tapped gently against the window, Ingrid realised the only weight she carried now was the warmth of her own happiness.
