“You can’t be serious!” I practically shouted, outraged.

If a murder really had been committed, I couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to do anything about it. I also couldn’t believe that I was arguing with him about this. I’d never wanted to get involved with him and all his craziness in the first place.

“Oh, but I am, my dear Catson.”

My dear … Who did this dog think he was?

“And why is that, Bones?” I demanded, determined not to let my right eye squint.

“Because I am tired of not getting credit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Here’s how this kind of case always goes: a crime, usually murder, occurs. The professional, public detectives—the so-called ‘experts’—are called in. They fail to solve the case. Then I am called in. I solve the case, but they take all the credit. End of story.”

As he spoke, his eyes shifted sadly from me to the floor to studying his toenails.

I found myself, for the first time, starting to feel sorry for him. Then:

“Wait,” I said, this time letting my right eye go ahead and twitch. “You’re not going to investigate, you’re going to let a murderer run free—because your feelings are hurt? Because you feel you don’t get enough credit?”

“Well,” he said, now looking slightly embarrassed, “yes, that is exactly what I plan to do. Or rather, not do.”

“You can’t be serious! If you think you can help, it is your duty to do so!”

“I suppose … ” His eyes met mine. “Do you want to come with?”

“Come with where?”

He eagerly un-crumpled the crumpled piece of paper.

“There,” he said, pointing to an address.

I thought of my lunch, which was still sitting on the table. I thought longingly of the cushion in front of the bay window, my nap long overdue. And then I thought of the adventure of potentially aiding to solve a murder. I must confess: I was curious. It also occurred to me that perhaps since returning home from the Cat Wars, my life had been a little dull.

“Fine,” I said, mildly exasperated with myself.

“Great,” he said, all smiles once more. “I’ll go get my hat.”