A Street Cat Named Bob (13 page)

With all these new thoughts bouncing around in my head, I carried on down Regent Street, sticking my head into every shop I passed. Most of the shop assistants looked horrified to see this long-haired figure standing in their doorways and took a step back. Others just flashed me blank expressions and slow shakes of the head. I could see what they were thinking. They thought I was some piece of dirt that had just blown in off the street.

After about half a dozen shops, my mood began to swing again, this time back towards resignation. I had no idea how long it was since Bob had run off. Time had seemed to slow down. It was as if it was all happening in slow motion. I was close to giving up.

A couple of hundred yards down Regent Street, there was a side street ahead leading back down to Piccadilly. From there he could have headed in any one of a dozen directions: into Mayfair or even across the road down to St James’s and Haymarket. If he’d gone that far then I knew he was lost.

I was about to give up and head down the side street, when I stuck my head into a ladies’ clothes shop. There were a couple of shop assistants there looking a bit perplexed and looking towards the back of the shop.

They turned to see me and the moment I said the word ‘cat’ their faces lit up.

‘A ginger tom?’ one of them said.

‘Yes, he’s got a collar and lead.’

‘He’s round the back here,’ one of them said, gesturing for me to come in and shut the door.

‘That’s why we shut the door,’ the other one said. ‘We didn’t want him to get run over.’

‘We figured someone was looking for him because of the lead.’

They led me towards a row of open wardrobes filled with fancy-looking clothes. I noticed the prices on some of them. Each one cost more money than I’d make in a month. But then, in the corner of one of the wardrobes, curled up in a ball, I saw Bob.

As time had slowed down during the past few minutes, a part of me had wondered whether he was trying to get away from me. Maybe he’d had enough of me? Maybe he didn’t want the life I offered him any more? So when I approached him I was prepared for him to bolt again and run off. But he didn’t.

I’d barely whispered softly, ‘Hey Bob, it’s me’, before he jumped straight into my arms.

All my fears about him wanting rid of me evaporated as he purred deeply and rubbed himself against me.

‘You gave me such a scare there, mate,’ I said, stroking him. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

I looked up and saw that the two shopkeepers were standing nearby watching. One of them was dabbing her eyes, close to tears.

‘I’m so glad you found him,’ she said. ‘He looked like such a lovely cat. We were wondering what we’d do with him if no one showed up before closing time.’

She came closer and stroked Bob for a moment as well. We then chatted for a couple of minutes as she and her colleague got ready to close the till and started preparing to shut up shop for the evening.

‘Bye, Bob,’ the pair said as we headed off back into the throng around Piccadilly Circus with Bob perched on my shoulder again.

When I got back to Ripley’s I discovered - to my mild amazement – that my guitar was still there. Maybe the security guy at the door had kept an eye on it. Or perhaps one of the community support officers in the area had made sure it was safe. At the time there was a mobile police unit next to us. All the police and community support people loved Bob. He had become very popular with the police. I had no idea who the Good Samaritan was but to be honest I didn’t care. I was just glad that Bob and I were reunited.

I wasted no time in gathering up my stuff and calling it a night. We’d not made enough money but that wasn’t my biggest concern. I stopped at a general store and, with most of the cash I had on me, bought myself a little belt clip that I attached, first to me then to his lead. It would make sure that we remained connected all the time. On the bus rather than sitting on the seat next to me as usual, he sat on my lap. He could be an inscrutable chap but at other times I knew exactly what Bob was thinking. Tonight was one of those occasions. We were together, and neither of us wanted that to change.

Chapter 10

Santa Paws

During those first few days and weeks after the drama at Piccadilly, Bob and I clung to each other like two survivors hanging on to a life raft at sea. We’d both been badly shaken by the incident.

It made me think long and hard about our friendship. For a while I kept wondering whether his escape had been a signal that he wanted to put some distance between us. Deep down I knew that if he wanted to go back on to the streets - or wherever it was he came from - ultimately there was nothing I could, or should, do to stop him.

I’d even thought through what I should do if he showed any sign of wanting to run away again. If he did, and I managed to catch him before he disappeared altogether, I decided I’d give him away to the RSPCA or Battersea Dogs and Cats Home where they had a really nice cattery. I didn’t want to be his gaoler. He had been too good a friend to me for me to curtail his freedom. He didn’t deserve that.

Thankfully though, it hadn’t come to that.

Once or twice since the incident, he had elected not to go out with me. When I had got the harness out in the morning he had run behind the sofa or hid under the table to tell me he wasn’t up for it. I’d left him to it. But in the main he had been happy to come out every day. And when he had, he had been a slightly different character, more attentive to me but, in a strange way, also more relaxed.

Despite what had happened at Piccadilly Circus, he wasn’t as frightened in crowds as he had been occasionally in the past. Maybe this was because I now had him clipped to my belt and kept a tighter hold on his lead when he was out. The truth was that I think he felt closer to me now. Our bond had been put to the test - and survived. I got the impression that now he wanted to stay by my side more strongly than ever.

Of course, it hadn’t all been a bed of roses; working on the streets of London, there are bound to be moments when you feel threatened. A couple of weeks after we saw that strange inflated character at Piccadilly we were in Covent Garden when we saw a troupe of street performers on giant stilts. They were old-fashioned French performance artists and had really, garish, scary faces.

The instant he saw them tottering around above our heads, I could tell Bob felt threatened. He squeezed in close to me. I was trying to concentrate on singing, but every now and again he stopped me from playing the guitar as he flopped his tail over the fret board.

‘Cut it out, Bob,’ I said, apologising to the one or two tourists who’d stopped to listen.

Of course, they thought it was funny and part of the act. If only I could manage to get Bob to do what I wanted so easily.

As soon as the figures on stilts had disappeared it was a completely different story, of course. With them gone he was relaxed again and he moved away from me slightly. It was as if he knew that I was his safety net. I was glad to provide it.

As Christmas 2007 approached and our first calendar year together drew to a close, our life had settled into a real routine. Each morning I’d get up to find him waiting patiently by his bowl in the kitchen. He’d guzzle down his breakfast then give himself a good wash, licking his paws and face clean. Bob was still very reluctant to do his toilet inside the flat and most mornings I’d take him downstairs to relieve himself. On other occasions I’d leave him out and let him find his own way out to the grass. He’d find his way down and back up again without any trouble. I’d then get ready, pack up my rucksack, grab my guitar and head into town.

With Christmas only days away, the crowds in Covent Garden were getting bigger and bigger. So too were the number of treats and gifts Bob was getting. From the very early days, people had got into the habit of giving Bob little presents.

The first one came from a middle-aged lady who worked in an office not far from James Street and would regularly stop and talk to us. She’d had a ginger tom herself many years earlier and had told me that Bob reminded her of him.

She had arrived one evening with a big grin on her face and a smart bag from a fancy pet shop. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I bought Bob a little present,’ she said.

‘Of course not,’ I said.

‘It’s not much,’ she said, fishing out a little stuffed figure of a mouse.

‘It’s got a little catnip in it,’ she smiled. ‘Not a lot, don’t worry.’

There was a part of me that felt awkward about it. Catnip was, after all, addictive to cats. I’d read all sorts of stuff about how it can drive them crazy if they get hooked on it. It was bad enough with me trying desperately to straighten myself out. I didn’t want Bob developing a habit as well.

But she was too nice a lady to disappoint her. She stayed for a little while, relishing the sight of seeing Bob playing with the little mouse.

As the weather took a turn for the worse, people began to give Bob more practical presents.

One day another lady, a striking-looking Russian, sidled up to us smiling.

‘Hope you don’t mind, but with the weather turning cold, I thought I’d knit Bob something to keep him warm,’ she said, producing a beautiful, light-blue knitted scarf from her shoulder bag.

‘Wow,’ I said, genuinely taken aback. ‘That’s great.’

I immediately wrapped it around Bob’s neck. It fitted perfectly and looked fantastic. The lady was over the moon. She reappeared a week or two later with a matching blue waistcoat. I was no fashion expert, as anyone who met me would have been able to tell in an instant, but even I could tell that Bob looked amazing in it. People were soon queuing to take photographs of him in it. I should have charged; I would have made a fortune.

Since then at least half a dozen more people - well, women - had dropped off various items of knitted clothing for Bob.

One lady had even embroidered the name Bob into the little scarf that she had created for him. It struck me one day that Bob was becoming a fashion model. He was regularly modelling some new creation a kindly soul had made for him. It gave a new meaning to the word ‘catwalk’.

It just underlined what I’d realised already: that I wasn’t the only one who was forming a deep affection for Bob. He seemed to make friends with almost everyone he met. It was a gift I wished I had myself. I’d never found it that easy to bond with people.

No one had fallen more deeply in love with Bob than my ex-girlfriend Belle. We were still close friends, probably better friends than when we were together and she would pop round to the flat on a regular basis. It was partly to see me and hang out but I was pretty sure that she was also coming over to see Bob.

The two of them would play together for hours on the sofa. Bob thought the world of her, I could tell.

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?’