A Street Cat Named Bob

‘Once it’s been carried out, the operation can’t be reversed. So are you certain you don’t want to breed from Bob at some future date?’ she said.

I just smiled and nodded.

‘Yeah, I’m quite certain,’ I said, rubbing Bob on the head.

Her next question stumped me, however.

‘And how old is Bob?’ she smiled.

‘Ah. I really don’t know,’ I said, before briefly explaining his story.

‘Hmm, let’s take a look.’ She explained that the fact that he hadn’t been neutered was a good clue about his age.

‘Male and female cats tend to become sexually mature at around six months of age. If they are left “entire” after that they go through some distinct physical changes. For instance, toms get fuller in the face, particularly around the cheeks. They also develop thicker skins and generally become quite big, certainly bigger than those cats that have been neutered,’ she told me. ‘He’s not that big, so I’d guess that he’s maybe nine to ten months old,’ she said.

As she passed me the release forms, she explained that there was a minor risk of complications but that it was a really tiny chance. ‘We will give him a thorough examination and maybe run a blood test before we go ahead with it,’ she said. ‘If there’s a problem we will contact you.’

‘OK,’ I said, looking slightly sheepish. I didn’t have a working mobile so they would have trouble contacting me.

She then took me through the procedure itself. ‘The operation happens under general anaesthetic and is usually pretty straightforward. The testicles are removed through two small incisions made into the scrotal sacs.’

‘Ouch, Bob,’ I said giving him a playful ruffle.

‘If everything goes OK, you can come and collect Bob in six hours,’ she said, looking down at her watch. ‘So at around four thirty. Is that OK?’

‘Yeah, great,’ I nodded. ‘See you then.’

After giving Bob a final cuddle, I headed back out into the overcast streets. There was rain brewing once more.

I didn’t have time to head all the way into central London. By the time I’d set up and sung a few songs, it would be time to turn around again. So I decided to take my chances around the nearest railway station, Dalston Kingsland. It wasn’t the greatest pitch in the world, but it provided me with a few quid and a place to while away the hours as I waited for Bob. There was also a very friendly cobbler’s shop next to the station where I knew I would get shelter from the inevitable rain when it came.

I tried to block Bob out of my thoughts as I played. I didn’t want to think about him in the operating theatre. He had probably lived his life on the street and could well have had all sorts of other things wrong. I’d heard stories of cats and dogs going into vets’ surgeries for the most minor procedures and never coming out again. I struggled to keep my darkest thoughts at bay. It didn’t help that there were big black clouds glowering over me.

Time passed very, very slowly. Eventually, however, the clock reached 4.15p.m. and I began packing up. I almost ran the last few hundred yards to the clinic.

The nurse I’d seen earlier was at the reception desk talking to a colleague and greeted me with a warm smile.

‘How is he? Did it all go all right?’ I asked, still breathing heavily.

‘He’s fine, absolutely fine. Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Get your breath back and I’ll take you through.’

It was weird, I hadn’t felt this concerned about someone - or something - for years.

I went into the surgical area and saw Bob lying in a nice warm cage.

‘Hello, Bob mate, how you doing?’ I said.

He was still very dopey and drowsy so didn’t recognise me for a while, but when he did he sat upright and started clawing at the doors of the cage as if to say: ‘Let me outta here.’

The nurse got me to sign a discharge notice and then gave Bob a good once over to make sure he was fit to leave.

She was really lovely and very helpful, which made a pleasant change after the previous experience I’d had at the vets’. She showed me where the incisions had been made. ‘It will stay swollen and sore around there for a couple of days, but that’s normal,’ she said. ‘Just check every now and again to make sure there’s no discharge or anything like that. If you notice that then give us a ring or bring him back in so we can check him out. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

‘How long will he be groggy?’ I asked her.

‘Could be a couple of days before he’s back to his normal bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self,’ she said. ‘It varies a lot, some cats bounce back immediately. With others it kind of knocks the stuffing out of them for a couple of days. But they are normally as right as rain within forty-eight hours.

‘He probably won’t want to eat much the day after but his appetite will return fairly soon. But if he stays very sleepy and lethargic give us a ring or bring him in for a check-up. It’s very rare but cats sometimes get infections from the operation,’ she said.

I’d brought the recycling box along with me again, and was just about to pick Bob up to pick him up when she told me to wait.