I look at Mr Beck in amazement. ‘Honestly? You didn’t think the plan was so awful?’

‘No. It was acceptable – considering that it was cooked up by a dog.’

The coast seems to be clear again, so we leave our hiding place and head home. It’s now stopped raining, and sure enough, a few more people have come out. OK, not a staggering number yet, but that doesn’t matter, because at the moment I don’t feel like establishing new contacts anyway. With my head hanging low, I make my way along the gravel path – and almost fall over Mr Beck, who has positioned himself smack in front of me.

‘Hey, little guy, stop! Over there I see exactly the scenario we’ve been waiting for all along.’

I look up in astonishment. Sure enough, there’s a man sitting on the nearest park bench. Although the bench is surely still pretty wet, he’s settled down and is apparently preparing to enjoy a little picnic. In any case, he’s already put a bottle on the bench and is now rummaging through a bag he brought along. I come up closer to have a better lookout point. He doesn’t exactly seem like a prince. He’s somewhat rumpled, with longish messy grey hair that keeps falling onto his face. He also has a beard that almost reminds me of a wirehaired dachshund’s coat.

‘Hmm, do you think he’s the right one? I have serious doubts about this guy.’

But Beck doesn’t accept that argument. ‘So what? It’s an opportunity – why not take advantage of it? If it doesn’t work, at least we’ll get some experience. Then we’ll be well prepared for the real top candidates.’

That didn’t even occur to me. Cats are true strategists. And Beck has come up with even more ideas.

‘So, we sneak over to the guy, then you’ll do your sick dog act. Step it up a bit, with lots of thrashing about, howling, the whole shebang. If he pays attention to you, I’ll try to make him understand that he should go back to our house with you.’

‘And how are you going to do that?’

‘Just like you, I’ll improvise!’

When we get to the bench, I look for a strategic little spot to stage my show. The man is so busy with his plastic bag that he has yet to notice me. Every once in a while he pulls his longish grey hair back out of his face and tucks it behind his ears. I lie down to the left of his feet and roll onto my back. Then I start to whine loudly, thrash my legs about, and writhe from side to side. I’m the very picture of suffering and misery – anyone who wouldn’t react to that has a heart of stone and doesn’t deserve our Caroline!

Sure enough, the man stops fiddling with his plastic bag and leans over to me.

‘Say, what kind of guy are you? And what are you up to, anyway?’