No sooner had the dog installed all his things in my home – my home, may I emphasize, since it was my name on the deed of ownership – than he commenced to introduce us proudly to everyone we came across as “Bones and Catson, Consulting Detectives.”

No, really. When I say everyone, this is not an exaggeration. We’re talking here about people in shops, random strangers on the streets, and any delivery person who came to the back door with, you know, a delivery.

And each time he did it, my mind silently screamed: When did I ever agree to this?

Sometimes, my screaming was not so silent. In fact, it was occasionally quite loud as I sought, repeatedly, to point out to the dog that I had never signed up for any of this … not ever.

But do you know what happened each time I yelled?

Instead of getting angry back – instead of shouting at me in return – the dog would simply sit there on his haunches, gazing at me calmly, until I was quite finished. Then the dog would ask calmly – and how annoying is this – “Are you quite finished?”

When one is really angry about something, there is nothing quite as infuriating as the irritating party behaving as though there’s nothing worth getting bothered about.

And so, after a time, I eventually stopped screaming and shouting … at least out loud. I simply gave in to it all. “Bones and Catson, Consulting Detectives” included.

But I did tell the dog that if we were going to do this thing, we should do it right.

“I’m sorry,” the dog said, “but I don’t follow.”

“If we’re to be in this business together,” I said, “then obviously we should put a sign above the door to our 221B address.”

“A sign? What sort of sign? Do you mean like one of those hex signs to keep witches away like those that can be found on barns in Pennsylvania Dutch Country in the United States of America?”

“No, I don’t mean a hex sign! We’re not witches!”

“Then what sort of sign do you mean?”

“A business sign!” I didn’t add “You stupid twit” to the end of the sentence but I swear it hung in the air.

“And what would this business sign say?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I shuffled my paws a bit, looked at the ground. “Dr. Jane Catson & Sherlock Bones, Consulting Detectives, perhaps?”

The dog laughed. “Leaving out the fact that the order of names in such a sign would be inaccurate, both alphabetically and in terms of detecting abilities, we don’t need any sign.”

He didn’t say “You stupid twit” either but I definitely heard it in his words, along with a particular scoff in how he said “sign.”

It was so annoying. He was the one that kept insisting to everyone that we were some sort of partners. He was the one who dragged me into all this. And now, the first time I made a suggestion to improve our business – a smart one, I might add – he was shooting me down? You’d think he’d at least be appreciative, happy, that I was making an effort.

“Well then, business cards, at least,” I tried again. “We should have proper business cards printed up, regardless of the order of our names on the cards.”

He stared at me – dumbly, I might add.

“You know,” I explained, “our names plus the address and phone number, so clients can locate and get a hold of us.”

“Whatever for?” The dog laughed again. “I don’t need to advertise or become some sort of ambulance-chaser. Everyone knows who I am. The cases come to me!”

I had to admit, the last case we worked on together, it really had just come to him, with a knock at the door and a human saying, basically – boom! – “Here’s a case.” But did he really think it could and would just happen like that, over and over again?

Wow. Someone had an awfully high opinion of himself.

Sure, it could work that way.

The delusional dog could just keep telling himself that.

In the meantime, I’d find some way to do a thing or two my way.

“Fine,” I told him. “You just keep telling yourself that.”