**The Peace Pie**
“Emily, I swear, if that Mr. Thompson bangs on the ceiling one more time, I’m taking him to court for harassment!” Anton stood in the hallway, furiously scrubbing paw prints off the lino. His voice trembled with rage, and his T-shirt clung to him with sweat despite the cool evening. Baron, wagging his tail guiltily, chewed a rubber duck by the door.
“Anton, keep it down—the kids are asleep,” Emily said wearily from the sofa, her knitting needles pausing mid-stitch. A half-finished baby hat lay on her lap. “And not court, that’s too much. He’s just… fussy. I’ll talk to him. Try to reason with him.”
“Reason?!” Anton flung the cloth into the bucket, eyes flashing. “Yesterday, he shouted in the stairwell that Baron ‘stinks’ and ‘ruins his petunias’! Emily, our dog doesn’t even go near the flower beds!”
“I know, I know,” Emily set aside her knitting, voice soft but strained. “But he’s our neighbour, Anton. If we start a war, we’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll bake a pie. Kill him with kindness.”
Anton snorted, watching Baron drop the duck and start licking the floor.
“A *pie*?” He shook his head. “Fine, try it. But if he complains to the council again, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Emily and Anton, a young couple with two kids—eight-year-old Oliver and six-year-old Sophie—had lived in their modest three-bed terrace for five years. Adopting Baron, they’d pictured joyful walks and children’s laughter. Instead, their fastidious upstairs neighbour, Mr. Thompson, declared war on the puppy. Now, their stairwell smelled of dog hair and simmering grudges.
—
It began a week after Baron’s arrival. Emily, returning from a morning walk, noticed the petunias by the front door—Mr. Thompson’s pride and joy, watered with military precision—were trampled. She assumed it was local kids, but that evening, a knock came. Mr. Thompson stood there, wiry and starched-shirted, notebook in hand like a detective on a case.
“Emily, was it your dog that destroyed my petunias?” His voice was crisp, glasses glinting under the dim hallway light. “Three years I’ve nurtured those, and now they’re mud!”
“Mr. Thompson, I’m sorry,” Emily flustered, tightening her grip on Baron’s collar. “But he’s always on a lead—we watch him. Maybe it was someone else?”
“Someone else?” He narrowed his eyes, scribbling notes. “The stairwell reeks of wet dog, paw prints on every step, and you say ‘someone else’? Control that mutt, or I’ll report you!”
Emily forced a smile, shutting the door. Baron, oblivious, nuzzled her knee. That night, she told Anton, who was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink.
“He’s lost the plot!” Anton slammed the peeler down, face reddening. “Baron doesn’t even bark indoors! I’ll have words with him, Emily—no niceties.”
“Don’t,” Emily sighed, stirring soup. “He’s lonely, picking fights out of boredom. I’ll win him over. Peace offering: apple pie.”
—
The next day, Emily knocked with a warm pie. Mr. Thompson’s flat smelled of polish and precision—not a cushion out of place, just potted violets, a vintage radio, and a sofa you could bounce a coin off.
“Mr. Thompson, I brought pie,” Emily smiled, offering the foil-wrapped parcel. “About Baron—he didn’t wreck your flowers. We’re careful.”
“Pie?” He sniffed it like evidence. “Clever. Fine, come in—but briefly. That dog barks at dawn, tracks mud, stinks. Unacceptable!”
“He hardly barks,” Emily said gently, perching on a chair edge. “And we clean up. Could it be kids? Or… a cat?”
“A cat?” He scoffed, jotting notes. “Cats don’t wear shoes. Remove the dog, or I’ll escalate.”
Emily left, pie rejected. That evening, a typed A4 notice appeared in the stairwell: “KEEP DOG OUT OF HALL! IT DISTURBS THE FLOWERS & ORDER! —P.T.” Anton tore it down, livid.
“This means war, Emily!” He jabbed the paper. “I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”
“Anton, no,” Emily grabbed his arm as he yanked on trainers. “One more try. If it fails, we’ll rethink.”
—
By week’s end, it was unbearable. Mr. Thompson thumped the ceiling at every bark—even a yip at the postman. New notices appeared: “DOG ODOUR UNBEARABLE!” “PAW PRINTS PROHIBITED!” He even rang the council, ranting about “health hazards.” Emily once caught him measuring paw prints with a ruler, like a crime-scene investigator.
“Mr. Thompson, what on earth—?” She froze as Baron wagged toward him.
“Documenting evidence,” he adjusted his glasses. “These prints—five centimetres wide! Photos going to the council!”
“That’s not Baron,” Emily’s patience snapped. “His paws are smaller! And he doesn’t touch your flowers!”
“Oh?” He sneered, scribbling. “A ghost, then? Remove the dog, or I’ll sue!”
Anton, hearing this, hurled his newspaper.
“That’s it. I’m telling him where to stick his lawsuit.”
“Anton, breathe,” Emily grabbed his jacket. “We’ll fix this. Quietly.”
—
The breakthrough came thanks to the kids. Sophie, watering the stairwell plants, gasped.
“Mum, look!” She pointed at the petunias. “Orange fur! It’s not Baron—it’s Marmalade!”
Emily squinted—ginger cat hairs clung to the soil. Mr. Thompson’s smug tabby, Marmalade, often slunk through the hall. A plan formed.
—
Oliver and Sophie, Baron’s staunch defenders, set a trap. Hiding by the bins with Oliver’s phone, they filmed Marmalade joyfully digging up the petunias, then strutting into Mr. Thompson’s flat.
“We’ve got him!” Oliver crowed, showing Emily the video. “Baron’s innocent!”
Emily hugged them. “You brilliant little spies.”
—
That evening, armed with cherry pie and video proof, Emily knocked. Mr. Thompson peered out, sour-faced.
“More pie?”
“Mr. Thompson,” Emily played the footage. “Your cat’s the vandal. Not Baron.”
He paled. “Preposterous! Marmalade’s a gentleman!”
“Gentlemen don’t dig,” Emily said sweetly. “Truce? You ignore Baron; we’ll watch Marmalade.”
Grudgingly, he took the pie. “Fine. But one paw print, and I complain!”
—
Days later, the petunias bloomed undisturbed. No more notices. Anton ruffled Baron’s ears.
“You tamed him, Em. But I’m watching him.”
The kids celebrated with a photoshoot—Baron in Anton’s old hat, licking Sophie’s face.
“Baron’s a hero!” Sophie giggled.
Emily smiled. “But stay sharp. Mr. Thompson’s crafty.”
—
Peace held… until Mrs. Wilkins from No. 3 arrived, chuckling over jam.
“You’ll never guess! Mr. Thompson’s feuding with pigeons now. Says they’re defiling his windowsills—he’s rigging nets!”
Emily and Anton burst out laughing as Baron snoozed, blissfully unaware.
Anton kissed Emily’s head. “You’re a genius, love. And our kids? MI6 material.”
They watched Baron chase a ball, kids shrieking with joy. For the first time in months, home was just home—no notices, no wars. Just a dog, a pie, and a neighbour who’d finally met his match.
