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on a large lot at the dead end of a quiet, little-travelled street. A grove of towering aspen and thick spruce neatly hides it from the view of the casual passer-by. Even some of my neighbours Amuse Bouche
    don't know the house is there. When I first saw the lot it felt to me like one of those enchanted fairy tale forests, the kind with elves and fairies and mischievous gnomes. I knew I'd fit right in.
    Inside the house is a unique mix of open, airy rooms and tiny, cozy spaces, each appealing to me depending on my mood. The backyard had been a labour of love of the previous owner from which I now reap the benefits. A six-foot-high fence encircles it and its population of fountains, birdbaths and trellises. It is a wonderful never-never land of lovingly planted flora, well-placed clay pots and metalwork benches, and stone-laid pathways that lead into leafy enclaves hidden throughout the expanse.
    Although 1 knew little about gardening when I moved in, I am now an avid student and it has quickly become a much-loved summertime hobby. At the rear of the lot, accessible by way of a back alley, is a two-car garage with a handy second storey I use for storage.
    When I first came to the big city from small town Saskatchewan to attend university, my mother's brother, Lawrence, took me under his mighty wing. It was not, however, through any sense of duty or responsibility for his sister's kid, for in actuality I hardly knew him before then. He and my mother did not get along.
    Lawrence helped me out because, as I later 46
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    learned, he saw in me a younger version of himself. I don't know how accurate he was, but I'm glad he thought so. Lawrence hosted extravagant dinners and parties populated with bizarre and interesting people and I was always invited. He was larger than life. He was attractive, well-mannered, well-educated and well-heeled.
    I wanted to be him. When he travelled, which was often, I was given the keys to the house,, the cars and the impossibly bountiful lifestyle that went with them. It was almost too much for a nineteen-year-old farm-boy. I'll never know why, but he trusted me implicitly with all of it.
    Tragically, Lawrence did not return from his last trip. He was killed in a skiing accident. He was fifty-one at the time.
    In his will, Uncle Lawrence left me a sum of money with one simple instruction: Buy a Dream. I was a Saskatoon police officer when Lawrence died. I wasn't unhappy with my job, but I wasn't thrilled with it either. I liked the work but I just wasn't cut out to wear a uniform and drive a car with a bubble. I knew becoming a detective in a small Canadian city was a risk, career-wise and financially, but in all other ways it promised a much superior lifestyle. No boss-es. No shift work. No doughnut jokes. And, I still got to solve criminal riddles, help good guys and get rid of bad guys. Perfect. In theory.
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    The Saskatoon Yellow Pages reveal only a handful of investigators for hire. Is it a matter of less population equals less crime, or is Canada simply a less Pi-oriented country? All I knew was that this was one career that guaranteed a rocky start. So, it was the money from Lawrence that allowed me to quit my steady police job, pay off the mortgage on my house and survive the first months of my new life. As instructed, I had bought a dream.
    It was after 11:00 p.m. when I finished packing.
    I was about to pour a glass of wine and relax but Barbra had other ideas. Barbra is a robust, four-year-old Standard Schnauzer with a wiry pep-per and salt coat, strong, rectangular head and cropped ears and tail. Barbra is affectionate but not effusive, lively but not restless, fairly inde-pendent, occasionally playful but usually laid back and serious. She prefers communication by way of eye contact rather than barking. If I am the king of my castle, she is the queen. We are wholly compatible housemates. Usually.
    She was standing as still as a wax figurine at the front door.