He broke in. “It’s not a hound. It’s a Labrador retriever.”
That didn’t faze me. I’m never surprised at a display of knowledge by a bird who reads as many books as Wolfe does. “Yes, sir,” I agreed. “I only said hound because it would be natural for a private detective to have a hound.”
“Labradors,” he said, “have a wider skull than any other dog, for brain room. A dog I had when I was a boy, in Montenegro, a small brown mongrel, had a rather narrow skull, but I did not regard it as a defect. I do not remember that I considered that dog to have a defect. Today I suppose I would be more critical. When you smuggled that creature in here did you take into account the disruption it would cause in this household?”
It had backfired on me. I had learned something new about the big fat genius: he would enjoy having a dog around, provided he could blame it on me and so be free to beef when he felt like it. As for me, when I retire to the country I’ll have a dog, and maybe two, but not in town.
I snapped into reverse. “I guess I didn’t,” I confessed. “I do feel the need for a personal pet, but what the hell, I can try a canary or a chameleon. Okay, I’ll get rid of him. After all, it’s your house.”
“I do not want to feel responsible,” he said stiffly, “for your privation. I would almost rather put up with its presence than with your reproaches.”
“Forget it.” I waved a hand. “I’ll try to. I promise not to rub it in.”
“Another thing,” he persisted. “I refuse to interfere with any commitment you have made.”
“I have made no commitment.”
“Then where did you get it?”