The Leash of Discord
“Daniel, get up and walk Baron—I’m not a robot!” Andrew Carter slammed his palm on the kitchen table, rattling half-empty mugs of coffee. The room smelled of burnt toast, freshly brewed espresso, and the faint musk of dog. Outside, April sunlight flooded the cul-de-sac where children already shrieked on the playground. Baron, a shaggy golden retriever with a frayed rubber duck clenched between his teeth, lay by the door, his brown eyes fixed on the leash dangling from its hook. His tail gave a feeble thump, but the family was too busy arguing to notice.
Fifteen-year-old Daniel was glued to his phone, where a racing game blared screeching tires. His wireless headphones hung around his neck, and his black hoodie—emblazoned with “Game Over”—was dusted with crumbs from last night’s crisps.
“Dad, I walked him yesterday!” he muttered, not looking up. “Make Sophie go—she always skips out!”
Sophie, nineteen and buried in her laptop, scoffed from the table. Her dark hair was twisted into a messy bun, shadows under her eyes from an all-night sociology cram session. Her university hoodie sagged off one shoulder.
“Me? Daniel, you’re the one who begged for Baron—you walk him! I’ve got my dissertation draft due tomorrow!”
Their mother, Margaret, stormed in, wiping her hands on a gingham apron. Her blonde ponytail was frazzled from vacuuming, her voice frayed.
“Enough shouting!” She slapped a frying pan onto the stove, grease hissing. “Andrew, you promised mornings! And you two—acting like Baron’s just my responsibility!”
Andrew, a forty-five-year-old engineer, set down the local paper—headline blaring a factory strike—and glared, stubble catching the morning light.
“Me? I leave for work at six, Margaret! Daniel swore he’d handle the dog!”
Baron whimpered, dropping his duck. His tail drooped as the kitchen erupted again.
By dusk, the fight reignited. Margaret cooked dinner—bangers sizzling, potatoes boiling—while Baron pawed at his untouched leash. Daniel yelled at his console in the lounge, Sophie typed furiously in her room, and Andrew scowled at footie highlights.
“Daniel, did you walk Baron?” Margaret called over the clatter of cutlery.
“Nope. Sophie’s turn,” he shot back, his virtual car smashing into a pixel wall.
Sophie barged in, yanking off her headphones. “My turn? You’ve gamed all day! Dad, tell him!”
Andrew massaged his temples. “Daniel, just go. He’s your dog.”
Daniel hurled his controller onto the sofa. “My dog? You all promised to help! Maybe we should rehome him if no one cares!”
Margaret spun around, wooden spoon clattering. “Rehome him? You cried for weeks to adopt him!”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Mum, don’t start. I’ve got my viva! Dad, when did you last walk him?”
Andrew stood, voice booming over the telly. “Enough! I’m dead on my feet from work, and all you do is nag!”
Baron, ears pinned back, nudged the door—left ajar after Sophie’s takeaway delivery—and bolted into the stairwell. Barks echoed.
“Baron!” Margaret shrieked, dropping the spoon. “Daniel, was that you?”
“Sophie left it open!” Daniel shouted, paling.
Sophie slapped the table. “Liar! You never take blame!”
Andrew grabbed the leash. “Everyone—search. Now!”
They scattered into the estate. Kids screamed on swings, traffic droned, and distant strays howled. Margaret, in slippers, called Baron’s name, voice cracking. Daniel sprinted past garages, phone flashlight shaking. A year ago, he’d found the pup soaked in a box by the bins, begging to keep him.
Sophie dialed neighbors, fingers numb. “Auntie Mary, seen Baron? No? Cheers…”
Andrew trudged through puddles, jaw tight. “Bloody hell, Margaret—I told you pets are work!”
“Work?” she spat. “I’m the one cleaning, cooking, parenting—while you live at that factory!”
Sophie ran over. “Stop it! Baron’s missing because we’re selfish!”
Daniel emerged, hoodie drenched. “He’s gone… and it’s your fault!”
Margaret gripped his shoulder. “Yours! You’ve ignored him for weeks!”
They returned at midnight, empty-handed. Margaret crumpled at the table; Andrew sipped tea from a chipped mug. Sophie scrolled local Facebook groups. Daniel curled on the sofa, fists clenched around an empty crisp packet.
“Posters tomorrow,” Margaret rasped.
Sophie nodded. “I’ll design them. But Daniel neglected him.”
Daniel shot up. “Me? You’re never here, Soph! I—I tried!”
Andrew set his mug down hard. “Tried? Gaming while Baron whined?”
Margaret shook her head. “I’m exhausted doing it all alone.”
Sophie stood. “Mum, you guilt-trip us! I’ve got my future!”
Andrew sighed. “We’re all to blame. But we’ll find him.”
Morning came. Sophie rummaged in the basement for storage bins, finding Daniel’s old notebook—blue cover scrawled with “Baron ♡” in marker. Inside, entries crowded the pages: *Baron slept on my bed. Warm like a blanket… Taught him paw. He’s brilliant… Love him. He listens when everyone shouts.*
Back in the kitchen—oatmeal steaming, kettle whistling—she handed it to Daniel. “You wrote this. Then abandoned him.”
His fingers trembled as he read aloud: *”Baron’s my best mate. When the house is loud, he stays quiet. Just want him happy.”* He wiped his eyes. “I didn’t mean… I just didn’t know how to say I was drowning.”
Margaret’s grip on the bread knife loosened. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Andrew cleared his throat. “My fault. Thought bills mattered more than… this.”
Sophie hugged Daniel. “We’ll find him. Together.”
At the factory, Andrew’s mate, old Terry, smirked. “Lost the mutt, eh? Bet the missus blew a fuse.”
Andrew grimaced. “Worse. Realized I’ve been a rubbish dad.”
Terry lit a fag. “Dogs glue families. Find him, sort it out.”
That evening, Auntie Mary called—Baron was spotted by the duck pond. They raced over. The park reeked of rain and kebabs. There he was: muddy, leash tangled in brambles. Daniel tackled him, sobbing into his fur.
“Idiot dog,” he whispered.
Margaret hugged Andrew, apron damp with dew. “He found us before we lost each other.”
Sophie unhooked the leash. “Daniel’s on walk duty now. Deal?”
He nodded. “Deal. Just… less yelling. Baron hates it.”
Margaret laughed. “We’ll try. But share that diary. It’s honest.”
A month later, Baron’s new collar gleamed as he trotted between them. Daniel handled mornings, Sophie evenings, Andrew weekends. Margaret stopped micromanaging. They talked more, shouted less. Sometimes, Daniel read them his notebook—now filled with notes about all of them.
One night, over Sophie’s burnt biscuits, Margaret smiled. “Baron saved us, really.”
Daniel scratched Baron’s ears. “He’s family.”
Sophie grinned. “Just walk him, yeah? Diaries won’t fix everything.”
Andrew flipped a sausage in the pan. “I’ll cook Sundays. Give your apron a break, love.”
Baron barked. The kitchen, warm and loud, felt like home. The dog wasn’t the problem anymore. He’d just reminded them—family means trying, even when you forget how.
