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Dougal, cat

Dougal here. David Greagg (or Man, as I call him) is very tall when he’s standing up. So tall that all you can see are his legs and a sort of blobby face thing above.

He’s much shorter when he’s lying down and that’s when you can appreciate him properly. He’s got fur on most of his face, so he’s less tragically deformed than most humans; and he also speaks Cat reasonably well.

That’s why I chose him to be my Gertrude Stein and write my autobiography. He does let me play with the writing device on his lap, but the letter-part isn’t really suitable for paws so it’s better if he does it.

[Actually, the coloured bit of his writing thing has a picture of me and my sister when we were kittens; so at first I thought maybe it was a fold-out portable shrine for kitten-worship. Maybe it really is; but I understand it has other uses.]

I hope Man doesn’t tell the whole story about me and the Big Tree, or my gluttonous little sister’s sausage habit; but he hasn’t told me what’s in our book because he wants it to be a surprise.

When he’s not writing about me he spends a lot of time playing with maths software and pottering around the house. Often he goes out at night and comes home smelling of Party and Strange Cats.

But he’s a Good Human and he knows what I like. Which is having several different flavours of munchies in my bowl 24/7, drinking fresh rainwater out of plastic buckets, and going for walks late at night.

OK, any further questions will have to go through my agent. I feel like a nap now.