**The Peace Pie**
“Emma, I swear, if that Mr. Wilkinson bangs on the ceiling one more time, I’m taking him to court for harassment!” Anton stood in the hallway, scrubbing dog paw marks off the laminate, his voice shaking with anger. Despite the cool evening, his T-shirt was damp with sweat. 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, her knitting needles paused mid-stitch, an unfinished baby hat on her lap. “And no lawsuits, that’s too much. He’s just… fussy. I’ll talk to him, try to explain.”
“Explain?” Anton flung the cloth into the bucket, eyes flashing. “Yesterday, he screamed in the stairwell that Baron ‘reeks’ and ‘ruins his petunias’! Emma, our dog doesn’t even go near the flower beds!”
“I know, I know,” Emma set her knitting aside, her voice gentle but strained. “But he’s our neighbour, Anton. If we start a war, 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 and lick the floor.
“A pie?” He shook his head. “Fine, give it a shot. But if he files another complaint with the council, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
Emma and Anton, a young couple with two kids—eight-year-old Oliver and six-year-old Sophie—had lived in their modest five-storey building for five years. When they brought home Baron, they imagined cheerful walks and children’s laughter, not a feud with their fastidious upstairs neighbour, Mr. Wilkinson. Now, their hallway smelled less of wet dog and more of passive-aggressive notes.
—
It all started a week after Baron arrived. Emma, returning from their morning walk, noticed the petunias in the pots by the entrance—meticulously tended by Mr. Wilkinson—had been trampled. She assumed it was the local kids, but that evening, there was a knock. Mr. Wilkinson stood there—lean, in a pressed shirt, clutching a notepad like a detective on a case.
“Emma, was it your dog that destroyed my petunias?” His voice was dry, glasses gleaming under the dim hallway light. “I’ve nurtured those for three years, and now they’re ruined!”
“Mr. Wilkinson, I’m sorry,” Emma flustered, gripping Baron’s collar. “But he’s always on a lead. 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 mutt, or I’ll report you!”
Emma forced a smile and shut the door. Baron, oblivious, nuzzled her knees. That night, she told Anton, who was peeling potatoes in the kitchen.
“Is he mad?” Anton tossed the knife, face reddening. “Baron doesn’t even bark in the hall! I’ll have a word with him—no niceties.”
“Don’t,” Emma shook her head, stirring soup. “He’s lonely, picking fights out of boredom. I’ll win him over—with pie.”
—
The next day, Emma baked an apple-cinnamon pie and knocked on Mr. Wilkinson’s door. The scent of polish and sterile order hit her—no dust, no clutter, just potted violets, an antique radio, and a sofa so tidy it looked unused.
“Mr. Wilkinson, I brought pie,” Emma smiled, offering the foil-wrapped bundle. “About Baron—he didn’t ruin your flowers. We watch him closely.”
“Pie?” He sniffed it like evidence. “Clever, Emma. Fine, come in—briefly. That dog barks at dawn, tracks mud, stinks. Unacceptable!”
“He barely barks,” Emma inched onto a chair. “And we clean up. Maybe it was kids? Or another animal?”
“Kids?” He snorted, jotting notes. “Kids don’t have paws. Remove the dog, or I’ll escalate.”
Emma left, pie intact. That evening, a typed A4 notice appeared in the hall: “*Remove the dog! It’s a nuisance! — R. Wilkinson.*” Anton ripped it down, livid.
“This is war, Emma!” He jabbed the paper. “I’m giving him a piece of my mind!”
“Anton, no,” Emma grabbed his arm as he yanked on trainers. “One more try. If it fails, we’ll rethink.”
—
By week’s end, tension peaked. Mr. Wilkinson banged the ceiling at every woof—even if Baron yapped once at the doorbell. New notices appeared: “*Dog odour intolerable!*” “*Paw prints banned!*” He even phoned the council, ranting about “*health hazards*.” Emma caught him measuring paw prints with a ruler, like a crime scene investigator.
“Mr. Wilkinson, what are you doing?” She froze, tugging Baron’s lead as he wagged at the neighbour.
“Collecting evidence.” He adjusted his glasses. “These prints—5cm wide! I’ve photographed them for the council!”
“Not Baron’s,” Emma’s patience snapped. “He’s a pup—smaller paws! And we walk him in the park!”
“Not him?” He sneered, scribbling. “A ghost, then? Remove the dog, or I’ll sue!”
Emma stormed home. Anton, hearing her, hurled the newspaper.
“Enough. I’m telling him off—or suing for slander!”
“Anton, breathe,” Emma grabbed his jacket. “We’ll solve this—without drama.”
—
Next day, Emma baked raisin muffins. Mr. Wilkinson blocked his doorway, arms crossed.
“Emma, no more baked bribes. That dog barked at 7 AM—I lost sleep!”
“That was the postman,” Emma sighed. “Let’s compromise. We’ll clean more; you check who’s trampling your flowers.”
“Check?” He scowled. “I know the culprit—Baron! Remove him!”
Emma left, defeated—until Sophie, watering the hallway plants, gasped.
“Mum, look!” She pointed at the petunias. “Cat fur! It’s not Baron—it’s Whiskers!”
Emma peered closer—ginger hairs clung to the soil. Mr. Wilkinson’s smug tabby, Whiskers, who occasionally prowled the halls. A breakthrough.
—
The kids cracked the case. Oliver and Sophie, Baron’s loyal defenders, set up “Operation Cat Trap”—filming Whiskers mid-dig, petunias flying.
“We’ve got him!” Oliver whispered, phone hidden by the bins. “Now they’ll leave Baron alone!”
Sophie bit her lip. “What if Mr. Wilkinson catches us?”
“He won’t,” Oliver grinned. “We’re stealth mode!”
Next day, Whiskers returned, paws deep in soil, then sauntered into Mr. Wilkinson’s flat. Oliver got it all on film.
“Mum, it’s Whiskers!” He waved the phone. “Baron’s innocent!”
Emma hugged them. “You geniuses. Now we negotiate.”
—
That evening, Emma arrived with cherry pie and footage. Mr. Wilkinson opened the door, sour-faced.
“More pie?”
“Mr. Wilkinson,” Emma played the video—Whiskers, gleeful vandal. “Your cat’s the culprit. Not Baron.”
He paled. “Preposterous! Whiskers is disciplined!”
“Watch.” The video looped—Whiskers, dirt-flinging champion.
Wilkinson’s grip tightened on his notepad. “Well… perhaps. But that dog still barks!”
“We’ll keep him quiet,” Emma held his gaze. “You stop the complaints; we’ll clean up. And maybe… keep Whiskers indoors?”
He grunted, snatching the pie. “Fine. But one paw print—I report you!”
—
Days passed. No more notices. No ceiling thumps. Anton even spotted Mr. Wilkinson smiling—at a pigeon in his garden.
“You tamed him,” Anton ruffled Baron’s ears. “Still watching him, though.”
Oliver and Sophie celebrated with a “Baron the Hero” photoshoot, the pup in Anton’s old hat, licking Sophie’s face.
“Mum, we won!” Sophie beamed.
Emma laughed. “Stay sharp—he might find new enemies.”
—
By week’s end, peace reigned. Mrs. Jenkins from downstairs dropped in, giggling.
“You won’t believe it! Mr. Wilkinson’s feuding with pigeons now—says they’ve vandalised his windowsills!”
Emma and Anton burst out laughing as Baron snoozed, blissfully unaware.
“Poor birds,” Emma wiped her eyes. “But our Baron’s safe.”
Anton hugged her, tossing a ball for Baron, who zoomed after it, kids squealing. For the first time in months, their home was theirs again—no footAnd as Baron flopped onto the rug with a contented sigh, everyone agreed—even the pigeons on Mr. Wilkinson’s windowsill—that some battles were better settled with pie.
