**The Leash of Disagreement**
“Daniel, get up and take Baron for a walk—I’m not a robot!” Andrew Lawson smacked his hand on the kitchen table, making the half-empty mugs rattle. The room smelled of burnt toast, fresh espresso, and a faint whiff of wet dog. Outside, April sunlight flooded the terraced houses, where kids shrieked on the playground. Baron, a scruffy golden retriever with a chewed-up toy in his mouth, lay by the door, staring mournfully at the leash hanging on the hook. His brown eyes begged, but the family was too busy arguing.
Fifteen-year-old Daniel was glued to his phone, where a racing game blared engine noises. His wireless headphones dangled around his neck, and his black hoodie—emblazoned with “Game Over”—was speckled with yesterday’s crisp crumbs.
“Dad, I took him yesterday!” he muttered, not looking up. “Make Sophie go—she always skips out!”
Nineteen-year-old Sophie, a uni student, hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, shadows under her eyes from late-night sociology revision. She wore an oversized university hoodie.
“Me?” she scoffed. “Daniel, you begged for Baron—you walk him! I’ve got a deadline tomorrow!”
Their mum, Claire, marched in, wiping her hands on her floral apron. Her blonde hair was frazzled from cleaning, her voice tight with exhaustion.
“Enough shouting!” She slapped a frying pan onto the stove, oil hissing. “Andrew, you promised to walk him this morning! And you two—you wanted a dog, then dumped him on me!”
Andrew, a forty-five-year-old engineer, set down the local paper—headlines about factory strikes—and scowled, his stubble glinting in the morning light.
“Me? Claire, I leave for the factory at six! Daniel nagged for Baron—let him step up!”
Baron whined, dropping his battered rubber duck. His tail gave a halfhearted wag, but the kitchen had become a battlefield, the dog no longer just a pet but a symbol of the family’s chaos.
By evening, the fight reignited. Claire cooked dinner—sizzling burgers, bubbling mashed potatoes—while Baron eyed his untouched leash. Daniel yelled at his console in the living room, racing-game crashes drowning out the football highlights Andrew watched. Sophie typed furiously in her room, energy-drink cans littering her desk.
“Daniel, did you walk Baron?” Claire called, stirring the potatoes.
“Nope,” Daniel shot back, his virtual car smashing into a wall. “Sophie’s turn. I’m busy.”
Sophie stormed in, headphones ripped off. “Busy? You’ve gamed all day! I’ve got an essay due!”
Andrew rubbed 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 just rehome him!”
Claire spun around, her wooden spoon clattering against the pot. “Rehome him? You cried for *weeks* to get him!”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Mum, don’t start. I’ve got exams! Dad, when did *you* last walk him?”
Andrew stood, voice booming over the TV. “Enough! I’m knackered from the factory, and all you do is shout!”
Then—Baron bolted. The door, left ajar after Sophie’s pizza delivery, swung open. His barks echoed in the stairwell.
“Baron!” Claire gasped. “Daniel, was that you?”
“*Me?* Sophie went out last!” Daniel paled.
Sophie slammed the table. “You *always* blame me!”
Andrew snatched the leash. “Everyone—out. *Now.*”
They scattered into the dusk. Kids screeched on the swings; cars honked. Claire, still in slippers, called for Baron, voice fraying. Daniel sprinted past the garages, phone flashlight wavering. He remembered finding Baron as a shivering pup in a box, begging to keep him.
Sophie rang neighbours, fingers numb. Andrew checked alleyways, boots splashing through puddles. “Claire, I *told* you a dog’s work!”
“Work? *I* cook, clean, walk him—while you live at that factory!”
Sophie yelled, “Stop! Baron’s missing, and you’re *still* fighting?”
By midnight, they returned empty-handed. Claire twisted her apron, eyes red. Andrew sipped tea from a chipped mug. Sophie refreshed a neighbourhood chat—someone mentioned a golden retriever near the park. Daniel curled on the sofa, crushed crisp packet in hand.
“We’ll put up posters,” Claire whispered.
Sophie nodded. “But it’s Daniel’s fault.”
Daniel exploded. “*My* fault? You’re never here!”
Andrew’s cup clattered. “You game nonstop while Baron whines!”
Claire’s hands shook. “I’m *tired* of carrying this family.”
Morning came. Sophie found Daniel’s old diary in the storage—blue cover, a lopsided heart, “Baron” scrawled in marker. Pages spilled with entries: *”Baron slept on my bed. Warm like a blanket.” “Taught him paw—he’s clever.” “Love him. He doesn’t shout like everyone.”*
Back in the kitchen—coffee brewing, toast popping—she handed it to Daniel. “You wrote this. But you gave up on him.”
Daniel read aloud, voice cracking: *”Baron’s my best friend. When everyone yells, he’s just there.”* He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I didn’t mean for him to leave.”
Claire softened. “Why didn’t you *say* you were struggling?”
Andrew sighed. “My fault too. Thought work came first.”
Sophie hugged Daniel. “We’ll find him.”
That afternoon, Andrew’s coworker, old mechanic Pete, noticed his gloom. “Dog run off?”
Andrew nodded. “And I’ve been a rubbish dad.”
Pete lit a fag. “Dogs glue families. Find him. Talk to your kids.”
At dusk, a neighbour called—Baron was by the park pond. They found him muddy, leash tangled in brambles. Daniel hugged him, tears soaking his fur.
“You *idiot*,” he whispered.
Claire pressed into Andrew. “We almost lost each other too.”
Sophie grinned. “Daniel’s on walk duty now. Deal?”
“Deal,” Daniel said. “Just… stop shouting. Baron hates it.”
A month later, Baron’s coat gleamed, new collar jingling. Daniel walked him mornings; Sophie took evenings. Andrew helped weekends. Claire stopped scowling. They talked more, yelled less.
One evening, over tea and Sophie’s biscuits, Claire smiled. “Baron saved us.”
Daniel scratched Baron’s ears. “He’s family.”
Sophie smirked. “Walk him, or the diary’s going public.”
Andrew laughed. “I’ll cook more. That apron’s earned a break.”
Baron barked. The kitchen filled with warmth. He wasn’t the problem anymore—he’d reminded them family means trying, even when you forget.
