A Street Cat Named Bob

He was definitely on the road to recovery, and his boisterousness around the flat was the ultimate proof of it. He had been a whirling dervish, flying around the place since day one, but in the past week or so he’d become even more of a ball of energy. I hadn’t thought it possible. There were times when he would jump and run around the place like some kind of maniac. He would claw furiously at everything and anything he could find, including me.

There were scratches on every wooden surface in the flat. I even had scratches on the back of my hand and arm. I didn’t mind, I knew it wasn’t malicious and that he was only playing.

He had become such a menace in the kitchen, where he would claw at the cupboards and fridge door in an attempt to break into my food supplies, that I’d had to buy a couple of cheap plastic child-locks.

I also had to be careful about leaving anything lying around that might become a plaything for him. A pair of shoes or item of clothing could be scratched to bits within minutes.

All Bob’s actions showed that there was something that needed to be done. I’d been around enough cats in my life to recognise the tell-tale signs. He was a young male with way too much testosterone flying around his body. There was no doubt in my mind that he needed neutering. So a couple of days before his course of medicine finished I decided to call the local vets, the Abbey Clinic on Dalston Lane.

I knew the pros and cons of keeping him ‘entire’, and they were mostly cons. If I didn’t castrate him there would be times when Bob’s hormones would completely take over and he just wouldn’t be able to stop himself from roaming the streets in search of willing females. It could mean that he would go missing for days - even weeks - at a time. He’d also be far more likely to get run over and to get into fights with other cats. As far as I knew, that might have been the cause of the fight that had caused his injury. Male toms are very protective of their territory and produce a distinctive odour to signal their ‘patch’. Bob might have wandered into someone else’s territory and paid the price. I knew it was probably paranoia on my part, but there was also a risk, albeit a very small one, of him contracting diseases like FeLV and FIV, the feline equivalent of HIV, if he wasn’t neutered. Last, but far from least, if he stayed with me, he would also be a much calmer, more even-tempered pet. He wouldn’t be so prone to running around like a maniac all the time.

By contrast the pros in favour of doing nothing amounted to a very short list. It would avoid him having to undergo a small bit of surgery. That was about it.

It was a no-brainer.

I rang the vets’ surgery and spoke to a female nurse.

I explained my situation and asked whether he was eligible for a free operation. She said yes provided I had a certificate from a vet, which I did after my first visits to sort out his leg and get his flea and worm medications.

The only thing that worried me was the medication he was still taking. I explained that he was coming to the end of a course of antibiotics but she said that shouldn’t be a problem. She recommended that I book him in for an operation in two days’ time.

‘Just bring him in and leave him with us in the morning. If everything goes to plan, you’ll be able to pick him up at the end of the day,’ she said.

I got up nice and early on the day of the operation, knowing that I had to get him into the surgery by 10a.m. It was the first time that we’d travelled any distance from the flat together since our visit to the RSPCA.

I hadn’t let him out of the flat, apart from to do his business downstairs, because he was still on his antibiotics. So I stuck him in the same green, plastic recycling box I’d used a fortnight earlier to take him to the RSPCA. The weather was miserable so I took the lid and let it rest loosely on the box once we were out and about. He wasn’t much more comfortable in it that day than he was the first time I put him in it. He kept sticking his head out and watching the world go by.

The Abbey Clinic is a small place, sandwiched between a newsagent and a medical centre on a parade of shops on Dalston Lane. We got there in plenty of time for his appointment and found the place packed. It was the usual, chaotic scene, with dogs tugging on their owners’ leashes and growling at the cats inside their smart carriers. Bob stood out like a sore thumb in his improvised carrier so was immediately a target for their aggression. Once again, there were several Staffies there with their Neanderthal-looking owners.

Some cats would have bolted, I’m sure. But Bob wasn’t fazed at all. He seemed to have placed his trust in me.

When my name was called out a young nurse in her twenties came out to meet us. She had some paperwork and led me into a room where she asked me what were obviously standard questions.