Huffing, puffing, leaping over fallen branches and launching ourselves past overgrown brambles, we blundered after him for what felt like forever, but was in actuality about half a mile. Every so often we’d spot him in the distance, stopping to sniff the air before he scampered off again.

And then we saw the focus of his mission. Up ahead, Nesbit wiggled through a slat in a wooden fence, into the most stunning of settings – a wide, open field with a brook burbling along one boundary, in the centre of which was the kind of house that put my Dream Cottage firmly in its place.

While not huge, it was like something out of Grand Designs – a wall of windows that spanned two storeys, a wide wooden porch beneath a steel and glass balcony.

One of these super-modern bi-folding glass doors was open, and without pausing in his stride, we watched, horrified, as Nesbit sprinted up the solid porch steps and straight inside the house, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him.

Joan looked at me, eyes wide, mouth open, as if to say, You’re the adult here – do something! Horribly aware that she was right, the only thing I could think of to do was follow him. I clambered over the fence, pointlessly calling the name he hadn’t figured out was his yet, hurried across the lawn and into a stranger’s kitchen.

Oh my. The kitchen was as stunning as the outside of the house. A huge island took up one half of the room. Behind it was a wall with a smaller window, a Smeg fridge and open shelving. The other half contained a magnificent wooden table and chairs. The table was set with numerous places, and the centre space was filled with bowls of salad, bread and other food all covered in cling film.

And there, underneath the table, was a puppy wagging his tail in ecstasy, jaws firmly clamped around an enormous roast chicken.

To make things worse, on the other side of the kitchen, sitting politely on a dog bed, no crate necessary, were two familiar-looking collies.

Crap.

At that point, a thirty-something man in a shirt and smart trousers walked in holding a wine glass.

‘Hello, is someone there?’ he called out, before spotting me, frozen in agony just inside the doors.

He instantly frowned, which was understandable. ‘Can I help you?’

Crap crappity CRAP!

‘Um… my dog…’ My voice trailed away into a whisper.

The frown deepened.

There was nothing to be done but step further into the house, get on my hands and knees and scrabble under the table to grab hold of the worst dog in the world and drag him out of there.

Nesbit, of course, disagreed. He’d hunted down a treasure beyond his wildest dreams, and he wasn’t about to surrender it without a fight.