Summertime requires yet another report on Phileas J. Fogg, our resident cat. As usual, Phil has been up to some of his old tricks although hot weather has slowed his zeal for activity.

Even if you did not feel the heat yourself, you could tell the weather was sultry by simply looking at Phil's summer posture.

On humid days he stretches his long body prone, as if searching for air currents lurking close to the floor. He looks like a rug as he presses himself  as low down as he can. When this bid for relief discovers little or no circulation, he appears close to despair.

He also seeks relief by crawling under the piano bench but that, too, is not cool. And hiding under a bed, another familiar refuge, must prove even worse. He does have access to our fans but seems not to trust them. Wearing a heavy fur coat may be a blessing in the winter months, but right now Phil clearly regards it as a burden.

Whether he blames his human masters for the heat, I cannot tell. But he has had other quarrels with the management of late. His dissatisfaction finds expression in a kind of “erk” that he utters, especially on emerging from his lair in the cellar. “Use words,” we often exhort him but, thus far, we haven’t heard any.

If he did use words, they might express irritation at our summer travels. The sight of suitcases raises his anxiety level visibly. Though we think it a pleasure for him to be fed by friendly young neighbors, for a change, he apparently still holds our absences against us. When we arrive back, a cat not at all gruntled is waiting at the front door.  

Two recent events in Phil’s career deserve special mention. First, he escaped through the front door of our house and spent a few moments outside on the sidewalk. But for the first time, he gave no indication of wanting to go further.

Why he did not climb a tree as he has done in the past, or run down the street, beats me. Would it betray enlightened gerontological principles to suggest that, as he ages, Phil has lost the desire to exercise freedom and explore new fields of dreams?

The second event is even more dramatic. A vet who makes house calls visited Phil at home to administer shots and give him a checkup. That sounds routine and easy. You would never say so had you seen how Phil responded.

He fought as if the vet had been an assassin. This kindly woman attempted numerous times to pet him and reassure him with sweet words but nothing worked to reduce his terror. This was one wild animal, hissing and spitting in the effort to save his life.

Finally, the vet gave up, vowing to come another day. This she did a couple of weeks later, fortunately in my absence. In preparation for this latter visit, Susan had slipped Phil a mickey to reduce his anxiety. It worked to some degree, and the vet was able to carry out her mission without having to fight off the beast.

Meanwhile two of Phil’s habits continue to raise questions for me. Why will he not look at himself in the mirror? He has the opportunity to see there another image of a cat and yet takes absolutely no interest in the prospect. Perhaps he is practicing the virtue of not being narcissistic but I still find it strange.

And why does Phil exhibit no interest whatever in watching television with us? Even when ads for cat food come across our screen, he ignores them. As a television watcher of some addiction, I cannot understand why the tube has not become an object of fascination for our fellow householder.

Meanwhile, I continue to play with Phil, sluggish though many summer days find him. He still enjoys my politically incorrect practice of gently kicking him around. He even allows me to use him as a broom as I sweep him across the kitchen floor.

And he positively grooves on my tickling him under the chin, an activity I engage in somewhat gingerly, given the always present possibility of him seizing the opportunity to bite or, at least, scratch me.

Or, do I perhaps put the matter of play wrongly?

In one of his essays, Montaigne asked: “When I play with my cat, who knows if I am not a pastime to her more than she is to me?” I like to think of Phil and me as taking some pleasure in this ambiguity.

As I conclude this essay, Phil has just run by my office door. Perhaps his action gives the lie to today’s forecast of steamy weather. And, though I strongly doubt it, maybe he is on to something the poet Stevie Smith once wrote: “Oh I am a cat that likes to/ Gallop about doing good.”

Richard Griffin