As we walked up to my front door, the dog glanced up at the house number and remarked, “Ah, 221B—what a perfect address!”

“I’ve always thought so,” I said dryly, then I reached out one paw to push in the small rectangle of my own personal entrance. I was about to step inside when I heard the dog cry out, “I’ll never fit through there!” Then I heard him mutter, “When I move in, we shall have to install a bigger flap for me.”

“You won’t be staying around long enough for that,” I said, pulling my hind legs through. Then I turned to poke my head back out through my flap. “You’re a big boy,” I told him. “Reach up to the handle and use the regular door.”

He had some trouble with the doorknob—those great big clumsy paws of his—but once he was inside, I led him up the long flight of hardwood stairs, the center of which is lined with an Oriental carpet runner, to what I like to think of as my apartments. Even though I own the whole row house, since Mr. Javier lives on the first floor, it’s cozier for me to think of the rooms on the second floor as my apartments.

“How cozy,” he said, taking in the overstuffed sofa and side chairs, the roaring fire in the stone fireplace, the multiple scratching posts and the cushion in front of the bay window overlooking the road.

I sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to go about pawing at all my things, picking up framed pictures and such as guests are sometimes inclined to do.

Instead he sat back, raised his front paws into fists and took fast jabs at the air in front of him. Then he nearly rose up on his hind legs and, with his left paw on his left hip, used his right paw to make big sweeping motions.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Seeing if there’s sufficient room in here for boxing and swordplay, two of my many hobbies. I do believe there is.”

“Please,” I said, “don’t make yourself at home.”

He seemed startled at my rudeness. But what could I say? I certainly wasn’t about to encourage him.

“221B,” he said again, stroking his chin, “on Baker Street. When we entered, I believe I saw a rabbit hanging the wash out of the window next door. Is that something new? Didn’t Baker Street used to be part of the Cats-Only Quarter?”

“Yes, it is relatively new, if you call twenty years ago new, which was before both of our times; and yes, it used to be. Once it became widely understood and accepted that animals could speak – such a shock to humans when that happened!—the city was divided into quarters: the Cat Quarter, the Dog Quarter, the Human Quarter, and the Everything-Else Quarter. But then, eventually, the walls came down. London became one big melting pot although the species still don’t have much tolerance for one another, the humans being the worst of the bunch. But surely, you must know all that.”

“Of course I do. I merely wanted to see if you were up on your history. So many ignore the teachings of the past, much to their own harm.”

Oh, great. Now he was wasting my time, getting me to tell him things he already knew.

“You mentioned something about a crime?” I prompted.

“That’s correct. I am, as Our Mutual Friend may have informed you, a consulting detective.”

“Our Mutual Friend never said anything about that.”

“Yes, well, from time to time, people come to me with—” He stopped speaking as his long nose began to twitch. “Tomato?” he asked, pronouncing it wrong.

I nodded.

“Garlic?”

I nodded again.

“Turtle?” he asked, looking puzzled this time.

I must confess, his sense of observation was impressive. Well, his nose’s was at any rate.

“Yes.” I nodded a third time. “That would be Mr. Javier.”

I turned and led us through a doorway into my well-equipped kitchen, Bones’s nose quivering and sniffing the whole way. I worried that next, he’d be drooling. Well, it did smell good.

We watched as Mr. Javier, his white apron tied securely behind his shell and his chef’s toque perched jauntily over one of his black eyes, carefully used a wooden spoon to stir the large boiling pots of pasta and sauce on the stove.

“That’s Mr. Javier,” I said. “He’s making lunch.”

“How extraordinary!” Bones said, observing the turtle. “Our Mutual Friend said you were intelligent, almost as intelligent as me—”

“Almost as intelligent a—”

“But I never dreamt … ” In an apparent state of awe, Bones approached the turtle, who—at this point—had stopped stirring his pasta in the pot and was now starting his slow, inching journey toward the canister of oregano. I do like a lot of oregano in my tomato sauce. Without asking permission, Bones picked up the turtle and turned him over, studying the underside closely as Mr. Javier’s tiny chef’s toque fell to the ground and his scaly little reptile legs waved helplessly in the air.

“But I don’t understand,” Bones said, clearly puzzled. Then he glanced up at me. “Where is the mechanism?”

“The mechanism for what?”

“This is a robot, isn’t it? A robot you’ve designed yourself?”

“I’m not a robot!” Mr. Javier cried in his native Castilian accent, speaking to Bones for the first time. I’d never seen Mr. Javier so outraged before, and frankly, I was outraged on his behalf.

“He’s not a robot!” I informed Bones. “He’s real! He’s a turtle, not to mention, my housekeeper and chef. Did I not say: ‘That’s Mr. Javier!’?”

The dog, still holding Mr. Javier, looked equal parts fascinated and dumbfounded.