Which brings me full circle back to where we began. I had just awoken on my comfy cushion beside the bay window in my living room from what I thought was an awful dream of the dog moving in, only to find it real and the dog staring down at me. The glass in the bay window had to be replaced after our last case because the murderer had tried to escape through it. In my worst nightmares, I sometimes still saw my lovely cushion, littered with dangerous shards of glass.

“You know, Catson,” Bones said with neither greeting nor introduction, as was his habit, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Well, that can’t be good,” I said with a yawn.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “you need to get out more.”

“What are you talking about, Bones? I’m outside all the time. Well, except for when I’m inside, like now. But other than when I’m inside? I’m always outside.”

“I’m not talking about the variety of places you nap. Napping on the lawn, I must point out, is not socializing. You should socialize more. You never have anyone in, and so you must get out more.”

“I’m a cat,” I pointed out, stating the obvious. “I like my privacy, which I had plenty of until you came along. I don’t need to socialize. You do enough of that for both of us.”

This was true. Since he’d moved in, he was forever entertaining all sorts of visitors. The Baker Street Regulars, comprised of six Cocker Spaniel stray puppies, were among the most frequent – especially their pack leader, Waggins. What they could do with that basket of chew toys, you don’t even want to know.

Also, heaven help me, now I was referring to us as an us.

Before he could respond, his eyes seized on something outside our window.

Suddenly, he screamed, “Squirrel!”

And then he was racing for the door.