A Street Cat Named Bob

It was about three weeks before Christmas that she came round with a plastic shopping bag in her hand and a big grin on her face.

‘What have you got in there?’ I said, sensing she was up to something.

‘It’s not for you, it’s for Bob,’ she said, teasing me.

Bob was sitting in his usual spot under the radiator, but perked up the minute he heard his name mentioned.

‘Bob, come here, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Belle said, flopping on to the sofa with the bag. He was soon padding over, curious to find out what was inside.

Belle pulled out a couple of small animal T-shirts. One just had a picture of a cute-looking kitten on it. But the other one was red with green trim on it. It had the words ‘Santa Paws’ in large white letters with a big paw print underneath it.

‘Oh, that’s really cool Bob, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘That’s the perfect thing to wear when we’re in Covent Garden close to Christmas. That will really put a smile on people’s faces.’

It certainly did that.

I don’t know if it was the Christmas spirit or simply seeing him in his outfit, but the effect was amazing.

‘Ah, look it’s Santa Paws,’ I’d hear people say almost every few minutes.

A lot of people would stop and drop a bit of silver into my guitar case, others, however, wanted to give Bob something.

On one occasion this very well-heeled lady stopped and started cooing over Bob.

‘He’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘What would he like for Christmas?’

‘I don’t know, madam,’ I replied.

‘Well, put it this way, what does he need?’ she said.

‘He could do with a spare harness, I guess. Or something to keep him warm when the weather gets really cold. Or just get him some toys. Every boy likes toys at Christmas.’

‘Jolly good,’ she said, getting up and leaving.

I didn’t think much more of it, but then, about an hour later, the lady reappeared. She had a big grin on her face and was carrying a smart-looking hand-knitted stocking, with cat designs on the front. I looked inside and could see it was stuffed with goodies: food, toys and stuff.

‘You must promise me that you won’t open it till Christmas,’ she said. ‘You must keep it under your tree until Christmas morning.’

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have enough money for a Christmas tree or any decorations in the flat. The best I’d been able to rustle up was a USB Christmas tree that plugged into the battered old Xbox I’d recently found at a charity shop.

In the days after that, however, I made a decision. She was right. I should have a decent Christmas for once. I had something to celebrate. I had Bob.

I suppose I’d become desensitised to Christmas because I hadn’t had a decent one in years. I was one of those people who actively dreaded it.

During the past decade or so I’d spent most of them at places like Shelter, where they did a big Christmas lunch for homeless people. It was all very well meaning and I’d had a laugh or two there. But it just reminded me of what I didn’t have: a normal life and a normal family. It just reminded me that I’d cocked up my life.

Once or twice I’d spent it on my own, trying to forget the fact that my family was on the other side of the world. Well, most of it. On a couple of occasions, I’d spent the day with my father. After going missing for a year when I first ended up on the streets, I’d stayed in contact, calling him very occasionally and he’d invited me down to his house in south London. But it hadn’t been the greatest of experiences. He didn’t really think much of me. I couldn’t really blame him. I wasn’t exactly a son to be proud about.

I’d been grateful for a nice lunch and a few drinks and, most of all, a bit of company. But it hadn’t really been a great success and we hadn’t done it again.

This year was different though. I invited Belle round on Christmas Eve for a drink. Then for Christmas Day I splashed out on a ready-made turkey breast with all the trimmings. I wasn’t really into cooking and didn’t have the equipment even if I had been. I got Bob some really nice treats including his favourite chicken meal.

When Christmas Day arrived we got up reasonably early and went out for a short walk so that Bob could do his business. There were other families from the block heading off to see relatives and friends. We all exchanged ‘Happy Christmases’ and smiles. Even that was more than I’d experienced in a long while.

Back up at the flat, I gave Bob his stocking. He had spotted it days earlier and had obviously guessed it was meant for him. I emptied the contents one by one. There were treats, toys, balls, and little soft things containing catnip. He absolutely loved it and was soon playing with his new toys like an excitable child on Christmas morning. It was pretty adorable.

I cooked our lunch early in the afternoon, then put a hat on each of us, had a can of beer and watched television for the rest of the afternoon and evening. It was the best Christmas I’d had in years.

Chapter 11 Mistaken Identity