A Street Cat Named Bob

They would ask about Bob and I would get a chance to explain my situation at the same time. They would ask where he came from and I’d then be able to explain how we got together and how we were making money to pay our rent, food, electricity and gas bills. People would give me more of a fair hearing.

Psychologically, people also began to see me in a different light.

Cats are notoriously picky about who they like. And if a cat doesn’t like its owner it will go and find another one. Cats do that all the time. They go and live with somebody else. Seeing me with my cat softened me in their eyes. It humanised me. Especially after I’d been so dehumanised. In some ways it was giving me back my identity. I had been a non-person; I was becoming a person again.

Chapter 7 The Two Musketeers

Bob wasn’t just changing people’s attitude to me: he was changing my attitude to others as well.

I’d never really had any responsibilities towards others in my life. I’d had the odd job here and there when I was younger in Australia and I’d also been in a band, which required a bit of teamwork. But the truth was that, since I left home as a teenager, my main responsibility had always been to myself. I’d always had to look after number one, simply because there wasn’t anyone else to do it. As a result, my life had become a very selfish one. It was all about my day-to-day survival.

Bob’s arrival in my life had dramatically changed all that. I’d suddenly taken on an extra responsibility. Another being’s health and happiness was down to me.

It had come as a bit of a shock, but I had begun to adapt to it. In fact, I enjoyed it. I knew it may sound silly to a lot of people, but for the first time I had an idea what it must be like looking after a child. Bob was my baby and making sure he was warm, well fed and safe was really rewarding. It was scary too.

I worried about him constantly, in particular, when I was out on the streets. In Covent Garden and elsewhere I was always in protective mode, my instincts were always telling me that I had to watch out for him at every turn. With good cause.

I hadn’t been lulled into a false sense of security by the way people treated me with Bob. The streets of London weren’t all filled with kind-hearted tourists and cat lovers. Not everyone was going to react the same way when they saw a long-haired busker and his cat singing for their suppers on street corners. It happened less now that I had Bob, but I still got a volley of abuse every now and again, usually from drunken young blokes who felt the fact they were picking up a pay packet at the end of the week made them somehow superior to me.

‘Get off your arse and do a proper day’s work you long-haired layabout,’ they would say, albeit almost always in more colourful language than that.

I let their insults wash over me. I was used to them. It was a different matter when people turned their aggression on Bob. That’s when my protective instincts really took over.

Some people saw me and Bob as easy targets. Almost every day, we’d be approached by idiots of some kind. They would shout stupid comments or stand there laughing at us. Occasionally, they would threaten to turn violent.

One Friday evening, quite soon after Bob and I had first come to Covent Garden together, I was playing at James Street when a bunch of young, very rowdy, black lads came past. They had real attitude, and were obviously on the lookout for trouble. A couple of them spotted Bob sitting on the pavement next to me and started making ‘woof’ and ‘meow’ noises, much to the amusement of their mates.

I could have coped with that. It was just stupid, puerile stuff. But then, for no reason whatsoever, one of them kicked the guitar case with Bob sitting in it. It wasn’t a playful tap with his toes, it had real venom in it, and sent the case - and Bob - sliding a foot or so along the pavement.

Bob was really distressed. He made a loud noise, almost like a scream, and jumped out of the case. Thankfully his lead was attached to the case otherwise he would almost certainly have run off into the crowds. I might never have seen him again. Instead, restrained by the lead, he had no option but to hide behind my rucksack, which was standing nearby.

I got up immediately and confronted the guy.

‘What the f*** did you do that for?’ I said, standing toe-to-toe with him. I’m quite tall and towered over him, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

‘I just wanted to see if the cat was real,’ he said, laughing as if he’d cracked a brilliant joke.

I didn’t see the funny side of it.

‘That’s really clever, you f******idiot,’ I said.

That was the signal for it all to kick off. They all began circling me and one of them began shoving into me with his chest and shoulders, but I stood my ground and shoved him back. For a split second or two there was a stand-off, but then I pointed to a CCTV camera that I knew was positioned on the corner near us.