Have I Become an Annoyance to My Own Husband?.. For Eight Wonderful Years, Everything Was Perfect—…

Had I started to annoy my own husband..?
For eight years, everything rolled along splendidly. In the ninth, it all began to chafe, most of allmy very existence.
He would drift in late, mutter through dinner in some indistinct fog, then fold into his laptophis clattering fingers lost in late-night shoot-em-ups. When he did glance my way, his face twisted with the pain of a thousand toothaches running from crown to sole. And more and more, hed announce, tight-lipped, that he was staying the night at his mothers.
One day, I crumbled and rang his mum:
Hello, Mrs. Darlington. Is Geoffrey with you by any chance?
Emily, she purred, A good wife always knows where her husband is.
The answer stung.
I even bought a copy of How to Keep Your Husband and, for reasons unclear, tried telling the cashier it was for a friend. The girls eyes were two teaspoons of pity stirred with disgust.
Then I had a sudden vision: how many men must one retain to write a book about it? And where do new husbands come from, if the old ones are never lost?
A hundred and fifty pages of sage advice: create an inviting home, wear racy knickers, ask about his day. I even mastered yeasted bread dough, but the smell of baking failed to beckon him home. Perhaps if Id kneaded dough in lacy lingerie, or perhaps if Id turned up in it at his mothers, where, legend had it, he took refuge.
Trying to share his interests ended in humiliating farce: I beat the impossible level in his favourite shooter game on my first go, a feat which did not thaw the frost between us.
One bleak afternoon I set out for winter boots, but came back clutching a chubby puppy bought for the same sum. Looking at him, I understoodId always longed for a proper dog. Not a lap-sized yapper, but a real, honest hound.
The breeder, a ruddy woman wiping her hands on her skirt, assessed me:
You know dogs, do you, love? Not much? Well, this ones a Golden Retriever.
When I pointed out he wasnt particularly golden, she dismissed me:
Hell go golden, just you wait. Fashionable breedchampion sire and damhell be a stunner! And Ive got his papers.
She named her price.
I didnt have quite enough, but she accepted what sat in my wallet.
Someone, I reasoned, ought to be happy to see me. New boots would never fawn at my feet or bring me slippers in their teeth.
That night, with perfect timing, Geoffrey dropped anchor at home and stared at the bundle wriggling on the mat.
What the hell is this?
A Golden Retriever pup. Purebred. Bargain price, seepapers and all.
The dossier described him as a purebred Alapaha Bulldog. The breeders number, meanwhile, connected to a construction office, where inquiries about bulldogs or retrievers earned you creative insults.
Are you blind? Wherewhere exactly is the retriever or even a bulldog in this mutt? How much did you spend? What?! For this level of imbecility
The puppy didnt enjoy the shouting. He tried a fearsome growl but managed only a puddle on the hall carpet.
Oh, for heavens sake, who am I living with? Geoffrey demanded of the ceiling, then retreated to his shooter games, shooting my likeness, I imagined, with great satisfaction.
The next morning, puppy had comfortably settled in. Overnight, hed targeted Geoffreys trainers and given his brogues a good chew.
That was the spark.
Everything about me was intolerable: face, wardrobe, thoughts, the quiet soul behind my eyes. Even the fact that I earned twice his wageanother humiliation. And no childrennever mind that.
But darling, you said
Because whod have kids with a simpleton? Theyd be little morons, just like you! Whod ever look at you twice?
The puppy, listening intently, waddled over and attempted to nip his ankle.
Stunned by imagined sorrows for my unbegotten children, my throat seized up. I could only watch as Geoffrey crammed his things into a suitcase.
Thirty years old. Life over. End of the line.
There was no point carrying on, but the puppy could not be made to understand. Suffering means nothing to a dog; he just wants food, belly rubs, and praise.
Gus, as Id named him, grew with comical speedoutwardly fearsome, inwardly useless as a guard. He couldnt manage the grabbing and biting bit, compensating with feathered licks and cuddling enthusiasm.
Our evening walks stretched ever longer. One damp December night, men started digging mysterious holes in the communal gardens: rain and snow churned everything to slush. Gus vanished into one of the pits and whimpered piteously. Terrified, I jumped after him, thankful not to have broken anything. The trench was properly dugdeep, sheer, clay wallsand, as I realised by the clock, it was nearly midnight. My phone: abandoned on the hall table.
At first, I was too embarrassed to call for help, but several failed attempts to climb out drove me to bellow Help! at the moon.
At last, two gothic young men, pale in the glow from their phones, drifted over. They looked like spectral undertakers. But instead of sacrifices and spades, they rang the fire brigade and stayed with us, cackling darkly about something gothic above ground.
They hoisted Gus out first. In his joy, he washed their hands and faces with grateful licks. Next came me, shivering like a leaf and too cold for shame.
The chief rescuer delivered a stern verdict on foolish dogs, foolish women, idle council workers, and useless ditch-diggers. The government got a mention too. Gus, innocent, loved everything about the man and headbutted his nose in mid-lick, leaving it bloodied.
By 1am, the dream tableau was complete: Gus, grubby but blissful; me, mud-clad and trembling; the rescuers, mottled with dog-slobber; the goths; and a commander, nose leaking impressively.
You might try training your monster, the commander suggested.
I do try. Hes just… strong-willed, I managed.
Just like me, one goth told the other, unable to suppress a peal of giggles.
I live right there, I chattered, Please come in and wash up.
Go on, the firemen told their leader, you look like Hannibal Lecter.
Perhaps I should dig a hole of my own. The way these council blokes move, youll grow old and grey waiting for romance, my friend remarked later.
P.S. My children arent prodigies. Just ordinary, funny, clever kids. Charlie and Rosie.
In year one, the class was meant to talk about their families.
Our dad saves the world! And our mum works with computers! piped up chirpy Charlie.
Quiet little Rosie added,
And our dog can watch the telly!He even waits for the biscuits to come on, then wuffs so we dont miss it.

The teacher, pressing her lips tight against a grin, nodded gravely. I, at the back, blushed and wiped a hand over Guss photograph on my phone. Maybe, I thought, not every misstep is a failure. Maybe, sometimes, you rescue each other in muddy trenches and kitchen lamplight, in gentle chaos. Gusbrown and burly, never goldenstretched in a ray of sunlight, two sleepy children leaning against his warm side. And me, decidedly ordinary, watched the three of them, and found, at last, that I was perfectly at home.