By day, the most feared criminal in the Kennel Syndicate is known by a very different name.
Prince Cutesy.
Prince lives in one of the largest houses overlooking the sea in Lytham with his owner, Angela.
Angela is successful, respected and well known throughout the town. She runs her own marketing business, sponsors local events and is often seen at exhibitions, charity evenings and the town's fashionable wine bars. Nobody has a bad word to say about her.
To Angela, Prince isn't a dog.
He's her baby.
He wears designer outfits, owns an ever-growing wardrobe of expensive coats and jumpers, and sports a pink diamond-encrusted collar worth more than most family cars. Four times a day he's served freshly prepared meals by the housekeeper Angela jokingly refers to as his "dog nanny."Every afternoon he enjoys a run along the beach before climbing into Angela's bright pink Porsche, proudly hanging his head out of the window on the drive home.
There is, however, one thing Prince absolutely hates.
Being dressed up.
Whether it's tiny bow ties, knitted jumpers or being pushed around Lytham in an expensive dog pram, Prince suffers the humiliation in silence. The locals smile politely at Angela, but behind closed doors many secretly chuckle at the sight of Lytham's most pampered Chihuahua.
Angela never notices.
She simply adores him.
As evening falls, Angela heads out to dinner with friends, charity events or another business function.
She kisses Prince on the head."Be a good boy, Mummy's little Prince."The front door closes.
The house falls silent.
Prince waits exactly sixty seconds.
Then everything changes.
Hidden beneath years of overgrown shrubs at the far end of the neglected garden sits a forgotten brick Garden Office. Angela barely remembers it exists. She has neither the time nor the interest to clear the tangled ivy that now hides the entrance completely.
To everyone else, it's just an abandoned outbuilding.
To Prince...It's Headquarters.
The pink collar comes off.
The expensive jumper is folded neatly onto its hook.
The tiny gold security door slides open.
Prince disappears inside.
Within minutes, encrypted radios crackle into life.
Operations are approved.
Routes are changed.
Heists are planned.
Catnip laundering networks are coordinated.
Messages are dispatched across the county.
Every instruction comes from one name.
Boss.
No member of the Kennel Syndicate dares question him.
His organisation is divided into specialist crews.
• Bruisers — the muscle, responsible for protection and intimidation.
• Runners — the fastest couriers, delivering messages and moving contraband without attracting attention.
• Trackers — expert scent hounds who locate missing shipments, safe routes and hidden hideouts.
• Fixers — specialists who make problems disappear before investigators arrive.
• Lookouts — constantly watching for police activity and warning the syndicate of approaching danger.
• The Inner Circle — the only dogs ever permitted to meet Boss face-to-face.
Despite leading one of the most feared criminal organisations in the country, almost nobody knows what Boss actually looks like.
Those who have seen him never speak.Those who do...Don't stay in the syndicate for very long.
By sunrise, Prince is back in his basket wearing another knitted jumper, patiently waiting for Angela to wake up.
She smiles."Good morning, Mummy's little Prince."He gives her his best innocent Chihuahua face.
Not a soul suspects that the tiny dog sitting on the kitchen floor spent the entire night running the most dangerous criminal empire the Cat Crimes world has ever known.