Dog Days of Summer

“Why do they call it the dog days of summer anyway?” I asked the cat.

“It’s to do with Sirius’ position in the sky.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s the dog constellation. The Greeks believed that this was the time of year when Sirius had the greatest influence over mortals, when your souls became playthings in the hands of the gods.”

“And what do the gods do with our souls?”

“They make the men lazy and the women voracious.”

“What about dogs?”

“They go madder than usual.”

“And cats?”

“Dogs can’t control gods.” He winked at me, stretched out his front legs ahead of him, before sitting patiently amongst the cornflowers and daisies of the meadow, his eyes narrowed in contentedness. I laid back, shading myself in the long grass, as the butterflies above my head danced to the music of the cicadas. The ship that awaited us in the harbour down below wouldn’t leave without us.

“We can stay a while longer.” I murmured to myself.

I first met the cat while at university. My housemate’s boyfriend was hosting his fellow philosophy students to celebrate handing in their dissertations. With no other plans, I was trapped.

“Well, no, actually, you can’t truly know that.” The guy brushed the only lock of hair not tied up in his man-bun out of his eyeline. “I mean, you’ve read Kant’s work on ethics and morality, right?”

“No.”

“Then, there’s not much more point discussing it.” He sighed.

“Can’t you explain it?”

“No offence, but you’re just not going to understand it if you don’t have the philosophical training and read the books that lead to the development of Kant’s thought.”

“And you think enough of the country will read the complete works of Kant to understand your argument as to why polygamy should be legalised?”

“No and that’s what’s wrong with this country. Fucking Tories.” The lock of hair had fallen back in front of his eyes and I excused myself to get some fresh air.

The garden looked like it had been ripped straight from the opening credits of Corrie: red brick, no vegetation excepting some hardy weeds that had struggled through the cracks, and a solitary cat on the wall. I climbed up and sat down to face the cat.

“Having fun?” I wasn’t surprised when he spoke.

“Every person I’ve spoken to has brought up a different philosopher I should have read.”

“You don’t read philosophy?”

“Do you?”

The cat laughed.

“Anyway, sounds like a great party.”

“I’ve been to better.” I glanced back through the living room window at the strangers stood frigidly still, awkwardly clutching their cans of artisanal Polish ale from the corner shop.

“Wanna bounce?”

I opened my mouth to respond when I heard the start of a song that had played three times already that night. The cat had already started off down the alleyway. Clambering down off the fence, I followed him into the night.

“Oh, what a sweet cat!” A jogger had stumbled across our meadow. “Can I pet him?”

I shrugged. As she bent down to stroke him, the cat smiled at me.

“Don’t worry, someone will pet you one day.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Sorry, what was that?” The jogger looked up in surprise.

“Nothing, just noting how hot it is today.” She looked at me quizzically as the cat sniggered into the grass. “Is the harbour far from here?”

“A mile and a half, two miles tops. I can show you if you’d like?”

“That’d be kind.” She offered me her hand and pulled me up out from amongst the restful wildflowers.

The sun’s heat had failed to sap her energy. She mentioned her name, but I lost it amongst the landslide of information that tumbled down after it. She told me her name, her sister’s name, her brother’s name (who she didn’t like), her other brother’s name (who was ok), where she grew up, that she never had a pet growing up, that she wished that she had, what job she did, what job she wanted to do when she was a child (lollipop lady), where she went to school, what she studied at university, her favourite professor (who she had a crush on), where she’d moved after university, the name of her flatmate (Cara), what Cara did for a living, how Cara was a great flatmate, how Cara always stole her oat milk, how Cara was always bringing random people over, about that one time when her and Cara had shared a lover, about her first boyfriend, about her second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth boyfriends, how she loved the way one of her boyfriends always nibbled on her…

“To think I let her stroke me.” The cat whispered. I snorted a laugh. She blushed and stopped talking. After a while, she took my hand. “Come, I know a shortcut.” I felt the cat jump down off my backpack as we slipped towards a deserted cove.

He’s not always there. Like any cat, he comes and goes according to his whims. Yet no matter how long he’s gone, I know he’ll return. Once he disappeared for six months, only to reappear when I was on a backpacking holiday in Central America.

It was my first solo holiday. Having just left my graduate job, I went, not to find myself, but out of a strange sense of duty to all my friends who always said they would go if only they didn’t have work. The days meandered by as I drifted past beautiful worlds as if they were paintings in a gallery. Two weeks in I was on the back seat of a sightseeing coach. It had been put on by the hostel, was air-conditioned, and full of Americans. I felt a vague awareness that the coach had stopped when a small voice cried out: “Gattito, gatito!”

Wearily, I stopped flicking through Instagram on my phone and saw the cat. With his unmistakable louche gait, he sauntered down the aisle towards me, a crowd of faces followed his every step.

“Gatito? I didn’t know you were a kitten. Or is that your name?”

“Very funny.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Experiencing a different culture, broadening my horizons, you know, that sort of thing.” I manoeuvred discretely to hide the half-finished bottle of Coca-cola and the overpriced tube of Original flavoured Pringles on the seat next to me.

“Really?”

“I mean, sure, not right now.”

“So what are you doing?”

Shortly afterwards, the coach stopped and we all got off. The guide lead the group towards the smiling hawkers of the sun-drenched old town, as the cat and I slinked off into a dark alleyway covered by corrugated iron.

“Some shortcut.” The cat sat in the grass by the road, licked his paws.

“Some shortcut.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“On the phone to her boyfriend.”

“Did he call before or after?”

“During.”

“Probably for the best. You’ve already had lunch.” The cat jumped away cackling as I aimed a lazy kick at it.

The cobbled road into the village led straight to the water’s edge before curling round in front of a row of cottages, each painted a different faded colour. At the end, just by the harbour wall, stood The Black Anchor Inn. It was suitably painted and outside stood an old man with a matching demeanour. He leant heavily on the barrel beside him, clutching his half-finished pint as if it was the only thing stopping him from being dragged to the bottom of Davy Jones’ Locker.

We walked in and I ordered a pint. As the barman served me, I heard my name called out.

“Thought you weren’t going to show.” The man looked twenty years older than the thirty I knew him to be. His skin was weathered, his eyes sagged deeply into his face, and his hairline was in full retreat.

“Sorry, lost track of time.” He dismissed my apology.

“Nay bother. It’s good to see you again.” He slapped me on the back. “I’ll get the ol’ girl ready; you finish your drink.”

I followed him outside and set up on a free barrel. For the first time, I noticed the sun was sitting lower in the sky. The mirror-like sea gleamed, reflecting the sun’s rays across the bay giving it an almost ethereal glow. It was a small harbour: a wide slipway separated low-lying cliffs on one side and the harbour wall on the other, each desperately stretching out to reach the other across the water. A pair of sailing yachts, a needlessly flashy pleasure craft, and some small rowing boats nestled near the slipway, while along the harbour wall lay a line of creakingly ancient fishing vessels that would outlast them all. The cat jumped onto the barrel and lapped at my pint.

A muttering disturbed the peace. I glanced around to see the old man on the other barrel staring at us. He appeared to be muttering to an unresponsive inky black doberman that he held on a chain.

“You alright mate?” I asked.

“Why’ve youse gotta cat? It’s ain’t a natural to brings a cat to the pub.” His voice rasped and drawled, like an out of control car swerving across a motorway.

“It’s not my cat.”

“Well get a rid of it then. You can’t just bring a bloody cat to the pub, it’s not right, it don’t belong here, I won’t a-allow it.”

“Why not? You brought your dog with you.”

“That’s because dogs always go to the pubs, they know how to behave themselveses, unlike thar cats, I mean what’s it doing that in public for?” I looked over to see the cat licking himself. He returned the look with a shrug and resumed his business. “No, dogs know what sorta thing is expected of them in public, ain’t that right boy?”

This acknowledgment seemed to spark life into the hereto statuesque hound. Its face contorted into a snarl, its features all scrunching up, as he began to growl. The cat stopped grooming himself.

“Time to go.”

I finished my drink and set off towards the harbour wall when I heard a bark. I turned around to see the man being almost split in half. The doberman was throwing itself towards us, eyes wide, mouth frothing, but the man refused to let go of the drink anchoring him to the barrel. For a moment I thought he would hold the two forever, but then the realisation of the man’s position hit him. The pint glass flew into the air as he was hurled forward, the dog dragging him along the stone slabs towards us.

The cat was already halfway down the harbour wall and I broke into a light jog after him. Ahead, I could see fumes rising from my friend’s boat. I called out to him.

“We need to go!” I yelled. He leaned over from the old fishing boat and took in the scene. With nimble, experienced hands, he loosened the lines connecting the boat to the harbour wall, before running up to the wheelhouse.

“Jump in!”

I was lining up the jump when I heard a wicked rattling sound behind me. The old man had given in and let go of the chain. He lay prone on the ground with his face tilted up towards us, full of child-like confusion as to what had happened and what was going to happen. Between us, the doberman had been catapulted forward. The loss of weight holding it back had sent it rolling, tumbling forward, but it was soon back on its feet. Somewhere it had been cut and the blood mixed with the froth fountaining from its mouth.

I leapt. Time slowed. The boat was about six feet from the wall. The rattling was growing closer. I stretched out my arms. The boat drifted further out. With a thud, I slammed into the side, my arms grappling desperately as I felt for something to hold onto. Just as my grip started to fail, my friend grabbed my arm. He started to haul me into the boat when an almighty howl went up behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see the dog in mid-air, red foam streaming behind it like the world’s worst imitation of the Red Arrows. It held in the air long enough to realise the folly of its ways. The boat was too far out now and the water was drawing closer. A look of dumb terror flashed across its eyes before gravity claimed him.

“Dogs.” The cat laughed. He sat on the wooden railing running along the side of the boat and together we watched as the mad dog spluttered back to the surface, growing ever smaller and further away in the water that glittered like a rolling bed of pearls under the rays of the late summer sun.