“Kate, I swear, if that bloke upstairs bangs on the ceiling one more time, I’m taking him to court for harassment!” Anton was scrubbing paw prints off the hallway tiles, his voice shaking with anger. His T-shirt was damp with sweat despite the chilly evening. Baxter, their golden retriever, wagged his tail guiltily by the door, chewing on a squeaky toy.
“Anton, keep it down—the kids are asleep,” Kate sighed, setting aside her knitting. The half-finished baby hat lay on her lap. “And no courts, please. He’s just… fussy. I’ll talk to him, try to smooth things over.”
“Smooth things over?” Anton tossed the cloth into the bucket, eyes flashing. “Yesterday he yelled in the stairwell that Baxter ‘stinks’ and ‘ruins his roses’! Love, our dog doesn’t even go near the flower beds!”
“I know, I know,” Kate said, rubbing her temples. “But he’s our neighbour. If we start a feud, it’ll never end. I’ll bake him a cake. Maybe that’ll help.”
Anton scoffed, watching Baxter drop the toy and lick the floor.
“A cake? Fine, give it a go. But if he files another complaint with the council, I won’t be responsible for what I do.”
Kate and Anton, a young couple with two kids—eight-year-old Oliver and six-year-old Emily—had lived in their modest London terrace for five years. Getting Baxter had been a dream—walks in the park, laughter in the garden—until their pedantic upstairs neighbour, Mr. Thompson, declared war on the pup. Now their stairwell smelled of tension as much as dog hair.
—
It started a week after Baxter arrived. Kate, coming back from a morning walk, noticed the roses in the front garden—Mr. Thompson’s pride and joy—were trampled. She assumed it was local kids, but that evening, a knock came. Mr. Thompson stood there, sharp-eyed in a pressed shirt, notebook in hand like a detective.
“Kate, was it your dog that ruined my roses?” His voice was clipped. “Three years of care, and now this!”
“Mr. Thompson, I’m sorry, but Baxter’s always on a lead. Maybe it was someone else?”
“Someone else?” He scribbled in his notebook. “The stairwell reeks of dog, paw prints everywhere, and you say ‘someone else’? Control that animal, or I’ll report you!”
Kate forced a smile, shutting the door. Later, she told Anton, who was chopping veg in the kitchen.
“He’s lost the plot!” Anton threw the knife down. “Baxter doesn’t even bark indoors! I’ll have a word with him—no niceties.”
“Don’t,” Kate said, stirring soup. “He’s lonely, nitpicking out of boredom. I’ll bake him a cake.”
—
The next day, Kate knocked with a warm apple cake. Mr. Thompson’s flat was spotless—no dust, no clutter, just violets on the sill and an antique radio.
“Mr. Thompson, let’s talk. Baxter didn’t touch your roses. We keep him in check.”
“A cake?” He sniffed it suspiciously. “Clever. But your dog barks at dawn, tracks mud—it’s unacceptable!”
“He barely makes a sound,” Kate said, sitting gingerly. “And we clean up. Could it be kids? Or a cat?”
“A cat?” He scoffed, noting something down. “Cats don’t leave paw prints. Remove the dog, or I’ll act.”
The cake failed. That evening, a typed notice appeared in the stairwell: “KEEP DOG OUT OF STAIRWELL! IT DISTURBS THE PEACE! —P.T.” Anton ripped it down, fuming.
“This is war, Kate! I’m giving him a piece of my mind!”
“Anton, no,” Kate grabbed his arm. “One more try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll think of something.”
—
By week’s end, things escalated. Mr. Thompson banged the ceiling at every bark, even if it was just at the postman. New notices appeared: “DOG ODOUR UNBEARABLE!” “PAW PRINTS = FILTH!” He even rang the council, complaining of “health hazards.” Once, Kate caught him measuring paw prints with a ruler, like gathering evidence.
“Mr. Thompson, what are you doing?”
“Documenting,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “These prints match your dog. Five centimetres wide! Proof for the council!”
“That’s not Baxter’s print—he’s smaller! And he doesn’t touch your roses!”
“Then who? Ghosts?” He scribbled. “Remove the dog, or I’ll escalate!”
Anton, hearing this, slammed his newspaper down.
“Right. I’m telling him off—or suing for defamation!”
“Anton, stop,” Kate grabbed his arm. “We’ll find another way.”
—
The breakthrough came from the kids. Emily, watering the front garden, spotted ginger fur by the roses. “Mum, look! Cat hair! It’s not Baxter—it’s Whiskers!” Kate remembered Mr. Thompson’s tabby, who sometimes prowled the stairwell.
Oliver and Emily hatched a plan. “We’ll film Whiskers!” Oliver whispered, hiding by the bins with his phone. Next day, they caught the cat red-pawed, digging up the roses. Kate marched upstairs with the footage and a cherry cake.
Mr. Thompson paled. “This is slander! Whiskers is civilised!”
“Then explain this,” Kate played the video. He huffed but finally mumbled, “Fine. But your dog still barks!”
“We’ll keep cleaning. You keep Whiskers off the roses. Truce?”
—
Days later, the notices vanished. The roses thrived, untouched. Anton chuckled, scratching Baxter’s ears. “You tamed him, love.”
One morning, Mrs. Wilkins from downstairs knocked in, giggling. “You’ll never believe it! Mr. Thompson’s at war with the pigeons now—says they foul his windowsills!”
Kate and Anton burst out laughing. Baxter snoozed on the rug, oblivious.
“Poor pigeons,” Kate said, sipping tea. “But our boy’s safe.”
Anton hugged her, tossing Baxter’s ball. “You’re brilliant, Kate. And our little spies? Top-notch.”
Outside, Baxter chased the ball, kids shrieking with joy. For the first time in months, their home was just that—a home. No notices, no wars. Just life.
