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“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. We’d only recently watched a James Bond movie on television, all of us cozily ensconced in the living room, the humans riveted to their TV set, and us cats wondering what all the fuss was about as usual. “Though it might be hard to find a cat that fits thepart,” I said, my thought processes a little sluggish on this, a lazy Saturday morning in the Kingsley home.

Dooley and I were in the backyard, enjoying those first few rays that do so much to warm up one’s bones, the dewy grass nice and cool against my belly. Our humans—Odelia and Chase—were still in bed, and so was baby Grace, the latest addition to the clan.

“Brutus could do it,” said Dooley. “He’d be perfect for the role.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, my friend,” I said. “James Bond has a license to kill, and to do that he needs to be able to handle a gun, and since cats aren’t naturally equipped by an otherwise wise and benevolent creator to handle a firearm, I think Brutus would be dropped from the lineup at his first audition. In fact he probably wouldn’t even make it past the first selection.”

This was enough to give my best friend pause. At least for a few minutes. But then he rallied.“Maybe they can adopt a strict no-gun policy? Brutus could use his claws when he’s under attack. I’ll bet he can be equally lethal—or even more so—with his claws than by using a gun. He could be the new gun-less Bond.”

“True, true,” I admitted. Though frankly I had a feeling the James Bond aficionados might not agree if after sixty years the famous franchise suddenly went firearm-free. Then again, the question was probably moot, since as far as I knew, Brutus had never expressed an interest in being the next Bond.

“I bet they’ll cast a dog,” Dooley said moodily. “They always do.”

“A dog would make a great spy,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “Dogs are very photogenic. And popular, too. I’ll bet if the next Bond was a dog it would be a big hit.”

“Who would be a hit?” suddenly asked a voice in my rear.

It was, of course, our friend Harriet. She and her boyfriend Brutus now came sashaying in our direction, straight from the rose bushes where they like to spend some quality time of a morning—or an afternoon or even a night.

“The new James Bond,” said Dooley without looking up. “They’re casting a dog.”

“A dog!” said Brutus. “You’re not serious.”

“Dooley is simply speculating,” I hastened to say.

“Isn’t that just typical?” Harriet scoffed. “It’s always the same pets who have all the luck. I’m telling you, it’s a dog’s world out there, and us cats are always picked last.”

“Dooley was just saying how you’d make the perfect Bond,” I said, trying to interject a modicum of optimism and cheerfulness into the conversation.

“I know,” said Harriet, simpering a little.

“No, I actually meant Bru—”

“I’d make some changes, of course,” she blithely went on. “For one thing I’d make sure they drop that dreadfully dreary color scheme.” She sighed excitedly. “I’m seeing lots of pinks and yellows. Maybe even some powder blue. And of course only happy faces from now on. Happy happy happy. And maybe we could do a big dance number to open the movie, with lots and lots of showcats, like inLa La Land.” She gave her partner a coy look. “My name is Bond. Harriet Bond.”

“Excellent,” Brutus murmured, though I could tell he wasn’t as happy as he could have been at this example of creative casting. And you have to admit: Brutus Bond does have a nice ring to it. Better than Max Bond at any rate. Or even Dooley Bond.

Then again, it was no use speculating, since no Bond producer in their right mind would ever cast a cat in the coveted role of Ian Fleming’s famous secret agent. Cats are simply too cute. And a cute Bond is a big no-no. And so instead of thinking of ways and means of saving the planet from a dastardly evil genius and his henchmen, Harriet joined us on the lawn, and let the sunlight play about her noble visage.

Brutus, meanwhile, ventured into the house to subject his food bowl to a spot check, and as the birds tweeted in a nearby tree, and a neighbor took his lawnmower for a test run, I soon found myself drifting off to sleep. And I probably would have dreamt of Bond girls and fancy cars and nifty spy gadgetry if not suddenly a fire engine started screaming nearby.

We were wide awake within milliseconds, and it took me a while to realize it wasn’t a fire that was about to consume some innocent home, but baby Grace who had decided that she required nourishment and she required it right now!

“Oh, dear,” said Harriet, once she had her heartbeat under control again. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that terrible sound.”

I could have told her that if she was going to be the next James Bond, there probably were worse things she needed to tackle than the sound of a hungry infant, but I wisely kept my tongue.