A Street Cat Named Bob

For the next forty-five minutes or so, Bob sat quietly next to me, his face pressed against the glass of the bus window, watching the world go by. He seemed to be fascinated by all the cars, cyclists, vans and pedestrians whizzing past us; he wasn’t fazed at all.

The only time he pulled away from the window and looked to me for a little reassurance was when the blare of a police siren, a fire engine or an ambulance got a bit too close for comfort. This surprised me a bit and once more set me thinking about where he had spent his early life. If he had grown up on the streets he would have got used to this noise a long, long time ago.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ I told him, each time giving him a friendly stroke on the back of the neck. ‘This is what the middle of London sounds like, Bob, better get used to it.’

It was odd, even though I knew he was a street cat and could run away at any time, I had this deep-seated feeling that he was here in my life to stay. Somehow I sensed this wouldn’t be the last time we’d make this trip together.

I was going to get off at my usual bus stop near Tottenham Court Road tube station. As it loomed into view, I picked up my guitar, scooped up Bob and headed for the exit. On the pavement, I fished around in my coat pocket and found the makeshift shoelace lead that I’d left in there after taking Bob out to do his business the evening before.

I put it around his neck then placed him down. I didn’t want him wandering off. The junction of Tottenham Court Road and New Oxford Street was bustling with shoppers, tourists and ordinary Londoners getting on with their day. He’d have been lost in a second – or, even worse, crushed by one of the buses or black cabs whistling towards and from Oxford Street.

Understandably, it was all a bit intimidating for Bob. It was unfamiliar territory for him - well, I assumed it was. I couldn’t be sure, of course. As we picked our way along I could tell from his slightly uptight body language and the way he kept looking up at me that he was uneasy. So I decided to take one of my normal short cuts through the back streets to get to Covent Garden.

‘Come on, Bob, let’s get you out of the crowds,’ I said.

Even then he wasn’t 100 per cent happy. Weaving our way through the throng, he kept shooting me looks as if to say he wasn’t quite sure about this. After only a few yards I could tell that he wanted me to pick him up.

‘All right, but don’t make a habit of it,’ I said, gathering him up and placing him on my shoulders just as I’d done crossing Tottenham High Road. He’d soon settled into a comfortable spot, at a slight angle across my right shoulder blade, with his front paws placed on the top of my arm, looking out like the occupant of the bird’s nest on some pirate ship. I couldn’t help smiling inwardly. I must look a bit like Long John Silver, except I had a puss rather than a parrot sailing along with me.

He certainly seemed to be very comfortable there. I could feel him purring lightly as we walked through the throng, across New Oxford Street and into the smaller streets leading down towards Covent Garden.

The crowds had thinned out by now and after a while I began to forget Bob was there. Instead I started to immerse myself in the usual thoughts that went through my mind on the way to work. Was the weather going to be good enough for me to get a solid five hours’ busking? Answer: Probably. It was overcast, but the clouds were white and high in the sky. There wasn’t much chance of rain. What sort of crowd would there be in Covent Garden? Well, it was getting close to Easter so there were a lot of tourists. How long would it take me to make the twenty or thirty pounds I needed to get me - and now Bob - through the next few days? Well, it had taken me the best part of five hours the previous day. Maybe it would be better today, maybe it wouldn’t. That was the thing with busking; you just never knew.

I was mulling all these things over still when I was suddenly aware of something.

Ordinarily, no one would engage or even exchange a look with me. I was a busker and this was London. I didn’t exist. I was a person to be avoided, shunned even. But as I walked down Neal Street that afternoon almost every person we passed was looking at me. Well, more to the point, they were looking at Bob.

One or two had quizzical, slightly confused looks on their faces, which was understandable, I guess. It must have looked slightly incongruous, a tall, long-haired bloke walking along with a large, ginger tom on his shoulders. Not something you see every day - even on the streets of London.

Most people, however, were reacting more warmly. The moment they saw Bob their faces would break into broad smiles. It wasn’t long before people were stopping us.

‘Ah, look at you two,’ said one well-dressed, middle-aged lady laden down with shopping bags. ‘He’s gorgeous. Can I stroke him?’

‘Of course,’ I said, thinking it would be a one-off event.

She plonked down her bags and placed her face right up to his.