The Peace Pie
“Emma, I swear, if that Mr. Thompson bangs on the ceiling one more time, I’ll sue him for harassment!” Anton stood in the hallway, furiously scrubbing paw prints off the laminate floor. His voice shook with anger, and his T-shirt clung to him with sweat despite the cool evening. Baron, tail wagging guiltily, chewed a rubber duck by the door.
“Anton, quiet—the kids are asleep,” Emma said from the sofa, her knitting needles pausing mid-stitch. A half-finished children’s hat lay on her lap. “And no lawsuits, that’s too much. He’s just… picky. I’ll talk to him, try to explain.”
“Explain?” Anton tossed the rag into the bucket, eyes flashing. “Yesterday in the stairwell, he yelled that Baron ‘reeks’ and ‘ruins his flowers’! Emma, our dog doesn’t even go near the flower beds!”
“I know, I know.” She set aside her knitting, voice soft but strained. “But he’s our neighbor, Anton. If we start a feud, we’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll bake a pie, try to smooth things over.”
Anton scoffed, watching Baron drop the duck to lick the floor.
“A pie?” He shook his head. “Fine, give it a go. But if he files another complaint with the council, I won’t be responsible for what I do.”
Emma and Anton, a young couple with two children—eight-year-old Oliver and six-year-old Lily—had lived in their five-story flat for five years. When they got Baron, they’d imagined cheerful walks and children’s laughter, but their meticulous upstairs neighbor, Mr. Thompson, declared war on the puppy. Now, their building reeked of tension, not just dog hair.
—
It started a week after Baron arrived. Emma, returning from a morning walk, noticed the geraniums in the pots by the entrance—meticulously tended by Mr. Thompson—had been trampled. She assumed it was the local kids, but that evening, a knock came. Mr. Thompson stood there: thin, ironed shirt, notebook in hand like a detective on a case.
“Emma, was it your dog that destroyed my geraniums?” His voice was dry, glasses glinting under the dim bulb. “I’ve grown them for three years—now they’re ruined!”
“Mr. Thompson, I’m sorry,” Emma flustered, holding Baron’s collar. “But he’s always leashed. Maybe it was someone else?”
“Someone else?” He squinted, jotting something down. “The stairwell stinks of dog, paw prints on every landing, and you say ‘someone else’? Control your pet, or I’ll report you!”
Emma forced a smile, shutting the door. Baron nuzzled her knee, oblivious. That night, Anton peeled potatoes angrily as she relayed the exchange.
“Is he mad?” Anton slammed the knife down. “Baron doesn’t even bark in the hall! I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”
“Don’t,” Emma sighed, stirring soup. “He’s lonely, nitpicking out of boredom. I’ll win him over with a pie.”
—
The next day, Emma baked an apple pie with cinnamon and knocked on Mr. Thompson’s door. The flat smelled of polish and sterility—no dust, no clutter, just potted violets, an antique radio, and a perfectly made sofa.
“Mr. Thompson, I brought pie,” Emma smiled, offering the foil-wrapped parcel. “About Baron—he didn’t ruin your flowers. We watch him closely.”
“Pie?” He eyed it suspiciously but took it, sniffing like a bloodhound. “Clever, Emma. Fine, come in—but briefly. Your dog barks at dawn, dirties the stairs—it’s unacceptable!”
“He barely barks,” Emma said gently, perching on a chair edge. “And we clean the prints. Maybe it was the kids? Or another pet?”
“Kids?” He scoffed, scribbling in his notebook. “Kids don’t have paws. Remove the dog, or I’ll take action.”
Emma left, defeated. That evening, a neatly typed notice appeared in the stairwell: “Dog owners—keep your pet under control! It damages property and disrupts peace! —J. Thompson.” Anton tore it down, furious.
“This means war, Emma!” He jabbed the paper. “I’m giving him an earful!”
“Anton, no.” She grabbed his arm as he laced his trainers. “Let’s try again. If it fails, we’ll rethink.”
—
By week’s end, the feud worsened. Mr. Thompson banged the ceiling whenever Baron yapped—even at the doorbell. New notices appeared: “Dog odor offensive!” “Paw prints prohibited!” Once, he rang the council, complaining of “health hazards.” Emma returned from a walk to find him measuring paw prints with a ruler, gathering “evidence.”
“Mr. Thompson, what are you doing?” She froze, gripping Baron’s leash as he wagged toward the neighbor.
“Documenting proof.” He adjusted his glasses. “These prints match your dog—five centimeters wide! Photos go to the council!”
“It’s not Baron,” Emma snapped, patience fraying. “He’s a puppy—his paws are smaller! And we walk him in the yard!”
“Not him?” He smirked, jotting notes. “Then who? A ghost? Control your pet—or I’ll escalate!”
Emma stormed home. Anton, hearing her out, hurled the newspaper down.
“That’s it.” He stood. “I’m telling him exactly what I think—or suing for slander!”
“Anton, stop.” She caught his arm as he grabbed his jacket. “We’ll find another way. Without a scene.”
—
The breakthrough came from the children. Lily, watering the hallway plants, spotted ginger fur by the geraniums.
“Mum, look!” She pointed. “Cat hair! It’s not Baron—it’s Marmalade!”
Emma peered closer—ginger tufts clung to the soil. Mr. Thompson’s cat, Marmalade, often prowled the halls. A plan formed.
Oliver and Lily, Baron’s fiercest defenders, hatched a scheme. “We’ll film Marmalade!” Oliver whispered, hiding by the bins with his phone. “Then they’ll stop blaming Baron!”
The next day, they caught Marmalade red-pawed, digging up the geraniums before sauntering into Mr. Thompson’s flat. Oliver’s video was damning.
“Mum, it’s the cat!” He bounced, waving his phone. “Baron’s innocent!”
Emma hugged them, grinning. “You’re geniuses.”
—
That evening, Emma baked a cherry pie and knocked, phone in hand. Mr. Thompson opened the door, sour-faced.
“More pie?” He adjusted his glasses. “What now, Emma?”
“Let’s talk.” She stepped inside, calm but firm. “Your cat ruined the flowers—not Baron. We have proof.” She played the video.
Marmalade’s guilt was undeniable. Mr. Thompson paled. “Well… perhaps. But your dog still barks and dirties the stairs!”
“We clean up,” Emma countered. “Here’s the deal: you stop harassing us about Baron, we keep the stairs spotless. And keep Marmalade away from the plants.”
Grudgingly, he took the pie. “Fine. But one paw print—I report you.”
—
Days later, the geraniums stood unharmed, the notices vanished. Anton ruffled Baron’s fur. “You tamed him, Emma. But I’m watching him.”
The children gleefully dressed Baron in Anton’s old hat, snapping photos. “Baron’s a hero!” Lily cheered as he licked her face.
Emma laughed. “Stay sharp—Mr. Thompson might find new targets.”
Sure enough, their neighbor Mrs. Wilkins knocked the next week, giggling. “You won’t believe it! Mr. Thompson’s at war with pigeons now—says they’ve ruined his windowsills!”
Emma and Anton burst out laughing as Baron snoozed on the rug.
“Poor pigeons,” Emma wiped her eyes. “But at least Baron’s safe.”
Anton hugged her, tossing a ball for the now-awake pup. “You were brilliant, love. And our little spies—top-notch.”
They stood in the yard, watching Baron chase the ball as Oliver and Lily shrieked with joy. For the first time in months, their home was peaceful again—no notices, no feuds, just the simple joy of family.
Sometimes, the sweetest peace comes from a little patience—and a well-timed pie.
