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TO ALL THE LIVESTOCK AT GLENHAVEN

Hi, you guys! Now that I'm two years old, I can tell you a little about my life (but be gentle about my spelling mistakes!)

My full name is Domino Felix Merriman, "Dom" for short. I live in a family of three: my "Shoe-man-Bean" is called Ann, and my "Big Sistie" is Chrissie, and she's a dog. You might find it strange that a mag should write to a dog in the first place, but I'm a mag with cattitude! This moggie quite likes (most) doggies, after all I've got one all of my own. We often communicate in Mogadog and I've learnt a lot from her when she's calm and I'm purrpussful after scoffing my favourite treats. This only happens when we're alone, though, 'cos she says "Shoe-mans just don't understand Mogadog". But sometimes we let Her play with us ...

(I don't know how Ann would catareact if she knew I was using her computer in secret. But my excuse for being in here is that I'm still searching for "the Mouse" and I will find him, I will.)

During one of our early mogadog lessons, Chrissie told me that as soon as she saw me she took me right under her paw. She said that I was a little blob of fur and that she wanted to wash me right away and carry me to safety. She wanted to play that first day, but I was tired after taking in so much and fell asleep on my shoe-man-bean's arm. (Now I'm so big I can hardly fit myself onto her lap and it's much easier if she lies down on the couch. When we're comfy, you could hear my purr from Oz.)

When I was hungry, I used to scale up shoe-man-Ann's legs until I could reach the table or the fridge or anywhere high up, and I often draped myself around her until she fed me. And I got into everything, even the bath one night. I slept in a big box with furry warm things in it and learnt how to use a cataloo tray.

But now I spend a lot of time on my perch in the bedroom. It's a lovely soft doo-vay on top of the wardrobe, I can see out of the window if I want, it's free from draughts and disturbances, and up there I'm in a delightful state of catamorphia for most of the day. It's absolutely purr- fect. But in the late afternoons my tummy tells me it's time to find food, and J've learnt that some categies work better than others. It is of catmount importance to get the right quality of food at hungry times, and I'm training my shoe-man slowly, but boy, it takes time and patience. She's always pussy-footing about and it would reduce a less intelligent moggie to irreversible catatonia.

My most favourite treats in all the world are these packets of "pockets". They're crunchie and taste totally cataclismic. But the only way to really enjoy them is to have your shoe-man finger- flick them in the air, and you have to hunt them down before they hit the deck. Trouble is, though, her aim is not very good (even though she says she still misses her "X" but her aim is improving - hah!) and the only categy is to squint first and dive second. Catacosmic!

My best categy to get closest to the fire is: squeeze with all my might between dog and fire; slowly, ever so slowly, roll over on side and, accidentally on purrpuss, extend claws to within one millimetre of her. She jumps up in disgust and flounces off in the mutt-huff. It works, it works! But we still play, mostly on Sunday mornings, when she's in a great mood for it's Sausage-Day! I stalk her, with my ears up, ready for the jugular, but so far she's too quick. Laughing with mogadog mirth, she bounces around me in dog-play-pose, wuffing, and I'm supposed to catch her off guard. (Her doggie breath is enough to catapult me into a parallel universe, for mog's sake!) I chase her into the kitchen, where we're both skidding on the lino until she hits the Mogadog Door. I hide behind a chair until she rushes past again, then I

lunge. And she wuffs. One of these days ... she'll be mogadog meat. And I'll be the boss in this doss.

"Peanuf' is the local red hairball grumpy old lady mag along the prom. She peers down drains, does catsentric things like that. When I was very small she was interested and came to sit on top of the shed but Chrissie barked her hairy head off and she fluffed into a furrball and flounced off. Next time I saw her, she said she owned the grass in the garden at the front of my house and that I could only go out the back way through the Mogadog Door. Now that I'm grown up I sit under the bushes in my garden and she doesn't say a single thing.

So far I have hunted down two birds, two mice (but not the computer one yet) and several frogs. I find frogs fascinating, and have brought them in to play. The first time I was only six months old and when Ann saw a frog in the kitchen she knew she had a real problem with a damp wall and that there were probably dozens of tiny frogs under the floor, but she didn't think that it was little me who had brought it in. They're cold, though, not worth eating. A nice warm mouse is quite tasty, on the other paw.

Harvey and Minnie are giant dogs in the next garden. I learnt very early on to avoid them

totally and never to hunt in their garden during the day. And then there's Prince in the garden across the road. He's a big, big black lab and his bark is bigger than his bite (they say, but I don't get close enough to find out).

And there's Sandy-man. He can't even talk Mogadog. "Furr-off, kill all moggies and motorbikes" is the extent of his vocabulary. He's a big yellow lab and he terrifies me, but Chrissie says he's just the hostest with the mostest when she visits, and she quite likes him.

I have several feline friends in the neighbourhood, and go hunting with Tigger sometimes. We're still catmates after many dangerous missions and cat-spats, and would defend each other to death when faced with the enemies of the night.

Chrissie has just come through and asked me wot I'm doing, and I've told her in Mogadog that I'm writing to all the Livestock at Glenhaven (even the green birdies). After a paws for

thought, she said "tell them I'm sorry I can't write myself - I'm dogslegslick".

I've secretly read all the letters that Bonnie wrote and I loved every one of them. Even though she now rests in the Great Kennel in the Sky, her letters live on.

Love

Domino

(cc to Skippy King in Musselburgh and my mates in Portobello)

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