A Street Cat Named Bob (3 page)

‘Come on, I’ll carry you,’ I said, picking him up with my spare arm while carrying the recycling box in the other. He was soon scrambling up on to my shoulders where he settled. I let him sit there while I carried the empty box with me all the way to the RSPCA centre.

Inside the centre, it was like stepping into a scene from hell. It was packed, mostly with dogs and their owners, most of whom seemed to be young teenage blokes with skinhead haircuts and aggressive tattoos. Seventy per cent of the dogs were Staffordshire Bull Terriers that had almost certainly been injured in fights with other dogs, probably for people’s amusement.

People always talk about Britain as a ‘nation of animal lovers’. There wasn’t much love on display here, that was for sure. The way some people treat their pets really disgusts me.

The cat sat on my lap or on my shoulder. I could tell he was nervous, and I couldn’t blame him. He was getting snarled at by most of the dogs in the waiting room. One or two were being held tightly on their leashes as they strained to get closer to him.

One by one, the dogs were ushered into the treatment room. Each time the nurse appeared, however, we were disappointed. In the end it took us four and a half hours to be seen.

Eventually, she said, ‘Mr Bowen, the vet will see you now.’

He was a middle-aged vet. He had that kind of world-weary, seen-it-all expression you see on some people’s faces. Maybe it was all the aggression I’d been surrounded by outside, but I felt on edge with him immediately.

‘So what seems to be the problem?’ he asked me.

I knew the guy was only doing his job, but I felt like saying, ‘Well, if I knew that I wouldn’t be here’ but resisted the temptation.

I told him how I’d found the cat in the hallway of my building and pointed out the abscess on the back of his leg.

‘OK, let’s have a quick look at him,’ he said.

He could tell the cat was in pain and gave him a small dose of diazepam to help relieve it. He then explained that he was going to issue a prescription for a two-week course of cat-strength amoxicillin.

‘Come back and see me again if things haven’t improved in a fortnight,’ he said.

I thought I’d take the opportunity and ask about fleas. He had a quick look around his coat but said he could find nothing.

‘But it’s probably worth you giving him some tablets for that. It can be a problem in young cats,’ he said.

Again, I resisted the temptation to tell him that I knew that. I watched as he wrote a prescription out for that as well.

To his credit, he also checked to see if the tom was microchipped. He wasn’t, which again suggested to me he was a street cat.

‘You should get that done when you have a chance,’ he said. ‘I think he should also be neutered quite soon as well,’ he added, handing me a brochure and a form advertising a free neutering scheme for strays. Given the way he tore around the house and was so boisterous with me I nodded in agreement with his diagnosis. ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ I smiled, expecting him to at least ask a follow-up ‘why?’

But the vet didn’t seem interested. He was only concerned with tapping his notes into a computer screen and printing off the prescription. We were obviously on a production line that needed to be processed and pushed out the door ready for the next patient to come in. It wasn’t his fault – it was the system.

Within a few minutes we were finished. Leaving the vet’s surgery, I went up to the counter at the dispensary and handed over the prescription.

The white-coated lady there was a bit friendlier.

‘He’s a lovely-looking fellow,’ she said. ‘My mum had a ginger tom once. Best companion she ever had. Amazing temperament. Used to sit there at her feet watching the world go by. A bomb could have gone off and he wouldn’t have left her.’

She punched in the details to the till and produced a bill.

‘That will be twenty-two pounds please, love,’ she said.

My heart sank.

‘Twenty-two pounds! Really,’ I said. I had just over thirty pounds in the whole world at that point.

‘Afraid so, love,’ the nurse said, looking sympathetic but implacable at the same time.

I handed over the thirty pounds in cash and took the change.

It was a lot of money for me. A day’s wages. But I knew I had no option: I couldn’t let my new friend down.

‘Looks like we’re stuck with each other for the next fortnight,’ I said to the tom as we headed out of the door and began the long walk back to the flat.

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.

For the short term, however, I was his guardian and I was determined to try and fulfil that role to the best of my ability. I knew I needed to do all I could to prepare him for his return to the streets, so one morning I filled in the form the RSPCA vet had given me for the free neutering service. I stuck it in the post and, to my mild amazement, got a reply within a couple of days. The letter contained a certificate entitling us to a free neutering.

The next morning I took Bob down to do his business outside again. The litter trays I’d bought him remained unsoiled and unused. He just didn’t like them.

He headed for the same spot in the bushes adjoining the neighbouring houses. It seemed to be a favourite area for some reason. I suspected it was something to do with him marking his territory, something I’d read about in a science article somewhere.

As usual, he was in there for a minute or two then spent some time afterwards clearing up after him. The cleanliness and tidiness of cats never ceases to amaze me. Why was it so important to them?

He had satisfied himself that everything was right and was making his way out when he suddenly froze and tensed up, as if he’d seen something. I was about to go over to see what was bothering him when it became quite obvious what it was.

All of a sudden, Bob lunged forward at lightning speed. It really did all happen in a blur. Before I knew it, Bob had grabbed at something in the grass near the hedge. I moved in to take a closer look and saw that it was a little grey mouse, no more than three inches long.

The little fellow had clearly been trying to scurry past him but hadn’t stood a chance. Bob had pounced with lightning speed and precision and now had the creature clamped between his teeth. It wasn’t the prettiest of sights. The mouse’s legs were thrashing around and Bob was carefully repositioning its body in his teeth so that he could finish off the mouse. It wasn’t long before the inevitable happened and the little creature gave up the fight. It was at that point that Bob released it from his mouth and laid it on the ground.

I knew what was likely to happen next but I didn’t want Bob to eat it. Mice were notorious breeding grounds for disease. So I knelt down and attempted to pick up his prey. He wasn’t too happy about it and made a little noise that was part growl and part hiss. He then picked the mouse up again.

‘Give it to me Bob,’ I said, refusing to back down. ‘Give it to me.’

He really wasn’t too keen and this time gave me a look as if to say: ‘Why should I?’

I fished around in my coat and found a nibble, offering him a trade. ‘Take this instead, Bob, it will be much better for you.’

He still wasn’t convinced but after a few more moments the stand-off came to a halt and he gave in. As soon as he stepped away from the mouse, I picked it up by its tail and disposed of it.

It was another reminder of what, to me anyway, is one of the many fascinating things about cats: they are lethal predators by nature. A lot of people don’t like to think of their cute little kitty as a mass murderer, but that’s what cats are, given half a chance. In some parts of the world, including Australia, they have strict rules on cats being let out at night because of the carnage they cause in the local bird and rodent population.

Bob had proven the point. His coolness, his speed and his skill as a killer was amazing to behold. He knew exactly what to do and how to do it.

It set me thinking again about the life he must have led before he had arrived in the hallway of the block of flats. What sort of existence had it been? Where had he lived and how had he survived? Had he relied on finding and eating prey like this every day? Had he been raised in a domestic environment or had he always lived off the land like this? How had he become the cat he was today? I would love to have known. I was sure my street cat friend had a tale or two to tell.

In many ways, this was something else that Bob and I had in common.

Ever since I’d ended up living rough on the streets, people had wondered about my past life. How had I landed myself in this position, they’d ask me? Some did it professionally, of course. I’d spoken to dozens of social workers, psychologists and even police officers who’d quizzed me about how I’d ended up living on the streets. But a lot of ordinary people would ask me about it too.