A Street Cat Named Bob

It was the truth. There was no way I was going to get rid of the cat for at least a fortnight, not until he completed his course of medicine. No one else was going to make sure he took his tablets and I couldn’t let him out on the streets in case he picked up an infection.

I don’t know why, but the responsibility of having him to look after galvanised me a little bit. I felt like I had an extra purpose in my life, something positive to do for someone - or something - other than myself.

That afternoon I headed to a local pet store and got him a couple of weeks’ worth of food. I’d been given a sample of scientific formula food at the RSPCA and tried it on him the previous night. He’d liked it so I bought a bag of that. I also got him a supply of cat food. It cost me around nine pounds, which really was the last money I had.

That night I had to leave him on his own and head to Covent Garden with my guitar. I now had two mouths to feed.

Over the course of the next few days, as I nursed him back to health, I got to know him a little better. By now I’d given him a name: Bob. I got the idea while watching a DVD of one of my old favourite TV series, Twin Peaks. There was a character in that called Killer Bob. He was actually schizophrenic, a kind of Jekyll and Hyde character. Part of the time he would be a normal, sane guy, the next he would be kind of crazy and out of control. The tom was a bit like that. When he was happy and content you couldn’t have wished to see a calmer, kinder cat. But when the mood took him he could be an absolute maniac, charging around the flat. I was talking to my friend Belle one night when it dawned on me.

‘He’s a bit like Killer Bob in Twin Peaks,’ I said, drawing a blank look from her.

But it didn’t matter. Bob it was.

It was pretty clear to me now that Bob must have lived outdoors. When it came to toilet time, he absolutely refused to go in the litter tray that I’d bought for him. Instead I had to take him downstairs and let him do his business in the gardens that surrounded the flats. He’d dash off into a bit of overgrowth and do whatever was needed then scratch up the ground to cover up the evidence.

Watching him going through his ritual one morning, I wondered whether he’d belonged to travellers. There were quite a few of them around the Tottenham area. In fact, there was a camp of them on some land near my block of flats. Maybe he’d been part of a travelling family and had somehow got left behind when they moved on. He was definitely not a house cat, that much I knew now.

There was no doubt that he was forming an affection for me. As, indeed, I was for him. At first he had been affectionate, but still a bit wary of me. But as the days passed he became more and more confident - and friendly. He could still be very boisterous and even aggressive at times. But by now I knew that was down to the fact that he needed to be neutered.

Our life settled into a bit of a routine. I’d leave Bob in the flat in the morning and head to Covent Garden where I’d play until I got enough cash. When I got home he’d be waiting for me at the front door. He would then follow me to the sofa in the front room and watch telly with me.

By now I was beginning to realise what a smart cat he was. I could see that he understood everything I was saying to him.

When I patted the sofa and invited him to come and sit next to me he did. He also knew what I meant when I told him it was time for him to have his meds. Each time he would look at me as if to say ‘Do I have to?’ But he wouldn’t struggle while I put tablets in his mouth and rubbed his throat gently until he swallowed it. Most cats would go mad if you try to open their mouths. But he already trusted me.

It was around that point I began to realise there was something rather special about him. I’d certainly never encountered a cat quite like Bob.

He wasn’t perfect, by any means. He knew where the food lived and would regularly crash around the kitchen, knocking over pots and pans as he searched for food. The cupboards and fridge door already bore scratch marks from where he’d been frantically trying to get access to something tasty to eat.

To be fair to him, he listened if I said no.

All I had to do was say, ‘No, get away from there, Bob,’ and he’d slink off. Again it showed how intelligent he was. And again it raised all sorts of questions about his background. Would a feral or a street cat pay attention to what a human told them in that way? I doubted it.

I really enjoyed Bob’s company but I knew I had to be careful. I couldn’t form too strong a friendship because sooner or later he would want to return to the streets. He wasn’t the sort of cat that was going to enjoy being cooped up permanently. He wasn’t a house cat.