**The Lead of Discord**
“Daniel, get up and walk Baron—I’m not a robot!” Andrew Carter smacked the kitchen table, sending half-drunk mugs of coffee rattling. The room smelled of burnt toast, fresh espresso, and the faintest whiff of wet dog. Outside, April sunshine flooded the cul-de-sac, where kids were already shrieking on the playground. Baron, a scruffy golden retriever with a tatty rubber duck clamped in his jaws, lay by the door, mournfully eyeing the lead hanging on its hook. His big brown eyes pleaded, but the family was too busy arguing.
Fifteen-year-old Daniel was glued to his phone, where a racing game roared with screeching tyres. His wireless headphones dangled around his neck, and his black hoodie—emblazoned with “Game Over”—was dusted with yesterday’s crisp crumbs.
“Dad, *I* walked him yesterday!” he muttered, thumbs flying. “Make Sophie go—she always weasels out of it!”
Sophie, nineteen and a uni student, hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, shadows under her eyes from all-night cramming for her sociology exam. Her stretched-out uni hoodie slipped off one shoulder.
“*Me?*” She scoffed, flicking hair off her screen. “Daniel, *you* begged for Baron—*you* walk him! I’ve got deadlines, I can’t be hauling a dog about every five minutes!”
Their mum, Claire, bustled in, wiping floury hands on her daisy-print apron. Her blonde bob was frazzled from cleaning, her voice taut with exhaustion.
“Enough shouting!” She slapped a frying pan onto the hob, sizzling with oil. “Andrew, *you* promised mornings! And you two—you wanted a dog, then dumped him on *me*!”
Andrew, a forty-five-year-old engineer, folded the local paper—headline blaring about factory strikes—and frowned, stubble glinting in the morning light.
“*Me?* I’m out the door by six, Claire!” he barked. “Daniel swore he’d handle Baron—let him step up!”
Baron whimpered, dropping his duck. His tail gave a half-hearted wag, but the kitchen had become a battlefield, the dog collateral in their domestic chaos.
By evening, the row reignited. Claire juggled frying pork chops and boiling potatoes, the air thick with onion and thyme. Baron flopped by the door, eyes locked on his untouched lead. Daniel yelled at his console in the lounge, game explosions drowning out the football highlights Andrew watched. Sophie typed frantically in her room, energy-drink cans littering her desk.
“Daniel, did you walk Baron?” Claire called, wooden spoon clacking against the pot.
Daniel’s car crashed on-screen. “Nope. Sophie’s turn—I’m busy.”
Sophie stormed in, headphones ripped off. “*Busy?!* You’ve been gaming all day! Dad, *tell* him!”
Andrew sighed, rubbing his temples. “Daniel, just go. He’s your dog.”
Daniel chucked his controller onto the sofa, face flushing. “*My* dog? You *all* promised to help! Maybe we should *rehome* him if no one cares!”
Claire spun around, apron quivering. “*Rehome him?!* You *sobbed* for a year to get him, Daniel! Now you’re quitting? Typical—I cook, clean, walk the dog, while you lot bicker!”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Mum, don’t start. My grades are drowning here! Dad, when did *you* last walk him?”
Andrew stood, voice booming over the telly. “Sophie, *enough!* I’m shattered from the factory—you just *whinge*!”
Then—Baron’s claws clicked. The door, left ajar after Sophie’s pizza delivery, swung open. The dog bolted into the corridor, barking wildly.
“*BARON!*” Claire’s spoon clattered into the sink. “Daniel, was that *you* not latching the door?!”
Daniel paled. “*Me?!* Sophie left it open this morning!”
Sophie smacked the table, laptop wobbling. “Liar! You *always* blame me!”
Andrew snatched the lead off its hook. “STOP! Everyone—*find that dog*!”
They spilled into the twilight cul-de-sac. Kids screeched on swings; traffic hummed; distant mutts yapped. Claire, in slippers and apron, scrabbled through hedges. “Baron! *Boy*, where are you?!”
Daniel sprinted toward the garages, phone torch bobbing. “Baron, *come*!” His throat clenched. A year ago, he’d found the pup shivering in a box by the bins, *begged* to keep him, sworn to do *everything*…
Sophie dialled neighbours, teeth chattering. “Auntie Pam, seen Baron? No? … *Ugh*.”
Andrew squelched through puddles. “*See*, Claire? Dogs need *work*! Now where is he?”
Claire whirled under a streetlamp. “*Work?!* You live at that factory! I’m *exhausted*!”
Andrew’s voice dropped, cold. “And *I’m* not? You *nag*—”
Sophie barrelled between them. “STOP! Baron’s *missing*! DANIEL?!”
Daniel emerged, hoodie soaked. “*Gone*. This is *your* fault—if you’d *helped*—”
Claire grabbed his shoulders. “*Our* fault?! *You* ignored him!”
Midnight. Damp and defeated, they trudged home. No Baron. Claire twisted her apron, eyes red. Andrew sipped tea from a chipped mug. Sophie scrolled local Facebook groups. Daniel curled on the sofa, crisp packet crumpled in his fist.
“Posters tomorrow,” Claire rasped. “Someone’s seen him.”
Sophie nodded. “I’ll design them. But *Daniel* dropped the ball.”
Daniel lurched up. “*ME?!* You’re *never* here, Sophie!”
Andrew’s mug thudded on the table. “Daniel, you *gamed* while Baron whined!”
Claire’s hands trembled. “I’m *done* carrying this family—”
Next morning, Sophie unearthed Daniel’s old notebook in the basement. Blue cover, a lopsided heart scribbled on it: “*BARON*” in marker. She flipped it open—and froze. Page after page:
*”Baron slept on my bed. Warm like toast.”*
*”Taught him ‘paw’. Clever boy.”*
*”Love Baron. He listens. Doesn’t shout like everyone.”*
Back in the kitchen—coffee brewing, porridge bubbling—Sophie slid the book to Daniel. His eyes were bloodshot.
“You *wrote* this,” she said.
Daniel read aloud, voice cracking: *”Baron’s my best friend. When the house is loud, he stays. … Want him happy.”* He swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I … *didn’t* want him to leave.”
Claire’s knife stilled. “Oh, *love* … Why didn’t you *say*?”
Andrew cleared his throat. “My fault. The factory … I forgot what matters.”
Sophie hugged Daniel. “*We’ll* find him.”
That afternoon, Andrew’s grizzled coworker, Pete, smirked. “Dog’s left ya in the lurch?”
Andrew grimaced. “*Baron* ran. … Family’s falling apart.”
Pete lit a fag. “Dogs glue folk together. *Find him*.”
Evening: neighbour Pam called. Baron was by the duck pond. They sprinted to the park—wet grass, sticky-sweet cherry blossoms, barbecue smoke. There he was: muddy, lead tangled in brambles. Daniel sobbed into his fur. “*You idiot*.”
Claire hugged Andrew. “He found *us*.”
Sophie grinned, unsticking the lead. “Daniel’s on walk duty now. *Deal*?”
Daniel nodded. “Just … *stop yelling*. Baron hates it.”
Claire laughed. “We’ll try. But *share* that diary, yeah?”
A month later, Baron trotted the cul-de-sac, fur glossy, new tag gleaming. Daniel walked mornings; Sophie evenings; Andrew took weekends; Claire managed meals. The shouting dimmed. Sometimes, Daniel read his diary aloud—even the bits about *them*.
One night, as pork chops sizzled and Baron thumped his tail, Claire smiled. “Baron saved *us*, really.”
Daniel ruffled the dog’s ears. “Best mate.”
Sophie stole a biscuit. “*Walk him*, or the diary goes public.”
Andrew kissed Claire’s forehead. “I’ll cook. That apron needs a break.”
Baron *woofed*. They laughed.
The dog wasn’t the problem. He was the reminder: family means trying—even when youAnd as Baron flopped onto his favourite spot by the fire, the Carters realised that sometimes, it takes a runaway dog to bring everyone back home.
