Thankfully, the turtle had not gone off chicken.

About an hour later, Bones and I found ourselves seated on high-backed chairs in the dining room at either ends of the long table, enjoying our midday meal beneath the chandelier (which did add a lovely glow to the table).

“You know,” the dog said, sucking on a chicken bone as he considered our surroundings, “I’m thinking of painting the walls red. I read somewhere that red walls aid digestion.”

“You most assuredly will not,” I said.

“But I could.”

“But I will not let you.”

“And why is that? I’m a rather accomplished painter, if I do say so myself. My work, I am told, has a da Vinci flair to it.”

“Be that as it may – although I’m guessing that no one actually compared your painting to da Vinci’s, whomever she may be – I let you bring your chandeliers and all your other things in here, but I will not let you paint my walls. Changing my walls would be a bridge too far.”

“I’ll accept that,” the dog said, “for now.” He picked up and sucked on another chicken bone. “By the way, I do like a fricassee as well as the next chap, but I do wonder if Mr. Javier might not be persuaded to try doing something else with a chicken.”

“I wouldn’t ask him that if I were you.”

“No?” Bones raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“If you do, he might tell you that we can just do our own cooking from now on if we don’t like his.”

Bones considered and then came the rueful: “He might say that, mightn’t he?”

“The New Mr. Javier?”

Bones nodded.

“I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet. Then we’d be left with a housekeeper/cook minus the cook.”

Bones threw down the last bone. “Stop dawdling, Catson.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you want me to tell you about Utah?”