**The Peace Pie**
“Emma, I swear, if that Mr. Pettigrew bangs on the ceiling one more time, I’ll take him to court for harassment!” Anton stood in the hallway, furiously scrubbing paw prints off the laminate. His voice shook with anger, and his shirt was damp with sweat despite the cool evening. Baron, wagging his tail guiltily, chewed on a rubber duck by the door.
“Anton, keep it down—the kids are asleep,” Emma sighed from the sofa, knitting needles still in her hands. A half-finished child’s hat lay in her lap. “And no courts, that’s too far. He’s just… nitpicky. I’ll talk to him, try to reason with him.”
“Reason with him?” Anton flung the cloth into the bucket, his eyes flashing. “Yesterday in the stairwell, he screamed that Baron ‘stinks’ and ‘ruins his roses’! Emma, our dog doesn’t even go near the flowerbeds!”
“I know, I know,” Emma set aside her knitting, her voice soft but tense. “But he’s our neighbour, Anton. If we start a war, we’ll never have peace. I’ll bake a pie—try to soften him up.”
Anton scoffed, watching Baron drop the duck and lick the floor.
“A pie?” He shook his head. “Fine, give it a go. But if he files another complaint with the council, I can’t promise I’ll hold back.”
Emma and Anton, a young couple with two children—eight-year-old Oliver and six-year-old Lily—had lived in this five-story block for five years. When they got Baron, they’d imagined joyful walks and children’s laughter. Instead, their pedantic upstairs neighbour, Mr. Pettigrew, had declared war on the puppy. Now their stairwell reeked of tension as much as dog fur.
—
It all started a week after Baron arrived. Emma, returning from an early walk, noticed the trampled geraniums in the pots by the entrance—Mr. Pettigrew’s prized blooms, which he watered with obsessive precision. She assumed it was the local kids, but that evening, there was a knock at the door. Mr. Pettigrew stood there—gaunt, in a crisply ironed shirt, clutching a notepad like a detective on a case.
“Emma, was it your dog that crushed my geraniums?” His voice was dry, his glasses glinting under the dim bulb. “I’ve nurtured them for three years, and now they’re ruined!”
“Mr. Pettigrew, I’m sorry,” Emma flustered, gripping Baron’s collar. “But he’s always leashed—we watch him. Maybe it was someone else?”
“Someone else?” He squinted, scribbling in his notepad. “The stairwell reeks of wet dog, paw prints on every floor, and you say ‘someone else’? Control that animal, or I’ll report you!”
Emma forced a smile and shut the door. Baron, oblivious, nuzzled her knee. That night, she told Anton, who was peeling potatoes in the kitchen.
“He’s lost the plot!” Anton tossed the knife, his face flushing. “Baron doesn’t even bark in the stairwell! I’ll have words with him—no niceties.”
“Don’t,” Emma shook her head, stirring the soup. “He’s lonely, picking fights out of boredom. I’ll kill him with kindness—a peace offering.”
—
The next day, Emma baked an apple-cinnamon pie and knocked on Mr. Pettigrew’s door. The flat smelled of polish and sterility—not a speck of dust, just violets on the windowsill and an immaculate sofa.
“Mr. Pettigrew, I brought pie,” Emma smiled, offering the foil-wrapped bundle. “Could we talk about Baron? He didn’t ruin your flowers—we’re careful with him.”
“Pie?” Mr. Pettigrew sniffed it like a detective. “Clever, Emma. Fine, come in—briefly. That dog barks at dawn, tracks mud, stinks. It’s unacceptable!”
“He barely barks,” Emma kept her tone gentle, perching on the edge of a chair. “And we clean up after him. Maybe it was kids? Or another pet?”
“Kids?” He scoffed, jotting in his notepad. “Kids don’t have paws. Remove the dog, or I’ll escalate this.”
Emma left, deflated. That evening, a typed A4 notice appeared in the stairwell: “Remove the dog! It damages property and disrupts order! —J. Pettigrew.” Anton turned crimson, tearing it down.
“This is war, Emma!” He jabbed the paper. “I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”
“Anton, don’t,” Emma caught his arm as he yanked on his trainers. “One more try. If it fails, we’ll rethink.”
—
By week’s end, the tension was unbearable. Mr. Pettigrew banged the ceiling at every bark—even if it was just at the postman. New notices appeared: “Dog odour offensive!” “Paw prints prohibited!” He even called the council, ranting about “health hazards.” Returning from a walk, Emma caught him measuring paw prints with a ruler like a crime scene investigator.
“What are you doing?” She froze, gripping Baron’s leash as he wagged toward the neighbour.
“Collecting evidence,” he adjusted his glasses. “These prints—5cm wide! I’ve photographed them for the council!”
“That’s not Baron,” Emma’s patience snapped. “His paws are smaller—he’s a puppy! And he doesn’t touch your flowers!”
“Not him?” He sneered, scribbling. “Then who—a ghost? Remove the dog, or I’ll sue!”
Emma stormed home, fuming. Anton hurled the newspaper aside.
“This ends now,” he growled, rummaging for his coat. “I’ll sue him for defamation—let him prove it!”
“Anton, stop,” Emma grabbed his wrist. “We’ll find another way. No scenes.”
—
The next day, Emma baked a raisin cake and tried again. Mr. Pettigrew blocked his doorway, arms crossed.
“Emma, no more bribes. That dog barked at 7 a.m.—I lost sleep!”
“That was the postman,” Emma sighed. “Let’s compromise. We’ll clean up; you check who’s really ruining your flowers.”
“Check?” He snorted. “I know it’s your Baron! Remove him, or else!”
Emma retreated, defeated—until Lily, watering the lobby plants, gasped.
“Mum, look!” She pointed at the geraniums. “Cat hairs! It’s not Baron—it’s Marmalade!”
Emma spotted orange fur in the soil. Mr. Pettigrew’s tabby, Marmalade, sometimes sneaked into the stairwell. A plan formed.
—
The breakthrough came from the kids. Oliver and Lily, Baron’s fiercest defenders, devised “Operation Cat Trap.”
“We’ll film Marmalade!” Oliver whispered, hiding by the bins with his phone. “Then they’ll stop blaming Baron!”
“What if Mr. Pettigrew catches us?” Lily clutched her watering can for cover.
“He won’t,” Oliver winked. “We’re like spy kids!”
Next day, they caught Marmalade red-pawed—digging up geraniums before strutting into Mr. Pettigrew’s flat. Oliver’s video was irrefutable.
“Mum, it’s the cat!” He shoved the phone at Emma. “Baron’s innocent!”
Emma hugged them, grinning. “You’re brilliant.”
—
That evening, Emma arrived with cherry pie and the video. Mr. Pettigrew’s face soured.
“More pie?”
“Just the truth,” Emma played the footage. “Your cat’s the vandal—not Baron.”
Mr. Pettigrew paled. “Preposterous! Marmalade’s well-behaved!”
“Then watch.” The video showed Marmalade gleefully wrecking the flowers.
“Well… perhaps,” he muttered. “But that dog still barks and dirties the stairwell!”
“We clean up,” Emma held his gaze. “Truce: you stop harassing us, we keep things tidy. And keep Marmalade away.”
He snatched the pie. “Fine. But one paw print, and I report you!”
—
Days passed. The geraniums flourished; the notices vanished. Anton ruffled Baron’s fur.
“You tamed him. But I’m watching—just in case.”
Oliver and Lily celebrated by dressing Baron in Anton’s old hat, snapping photos as he licked their faces.
“Mum, Baron’s a hero!” Lily beamed.
“He is,” Emma laughed. “But stay sharp—Mr. Pettigrew’s crafty.”
—
By week’s end, peace reigned. No more ceiling thumps, no more notes. Even Mrs. Wilkins from the ground floor brought jam, giggling.
“You’ll never believe it! Mr. Pettigrew’s”Now he’s declared war on the pigeons, says they’re ruining his windowsills—he’s even put up netting!”
