by James Bowen
As she passed me the release forms, she explained that there was a minor risk of complications but that it was a really tiny chance. ‘We will give him a thorough examination and maybe run a blood test before we go ahead with it,’ she said. ‘If there’s a problem we will contact you.’
‘OK,’ I said, looking slightly sheepish. I didn’t have a working mobile so they would have trouble contacting me.
She then took me through the procedure itself. ‘The operation happens under general anaesthetic and is usually pretty straightforward. The testicles are removed through two small incisions made into the scrotal sacs.’
‘Ouch, Bob,’ I said giving him a playful ruffle.
‘If everything goes OK, you can come and collect Bob in six hours,’ she said, looking down at her watch. ‘So at around four thirty. Is that OK?’
‘Yeah, great,’ I nodded. ‘See you then.’
After giving Bob a final cuddle, I headed back out into the overcast streets. There was rain brewing once more.
I didn’t have time to head all the way into central London. By the time I’d set up and sung a few songs, it would be time to turn around again. So I decided to take my chances around the nearest railway station, Dalston Kingsland. It wasn’t the greatest pitch in the world, but it provided me with a few quid and a place to while away the hours as I waited for Bob. There was also a very friendly cobbler’s shop next to the station where I knew I would get shelter from the inevitable rain when it came.
I tried to block Bob out of my thoughts as I played. I didn’t want to think about him in the operating theatre. He had probably lived his life on the street and could well have had all sorts of other things wrong. I’d heard stories of cats and dogs going into vets’ surgeries for the most minor procedures and never coming out again. I struggled to keep my darkest thoughts at bay. It didn’t help that there were big black clouds glowering over me.
Time passed very, very slowly. Eventually, however, the clock reached 4.15p.m. and I began packing up. I almost ran the last few hundred yards to the clinic.
The nurse I’d seen earlier was at the reception desk talking to a colleague and greeted me with a warm smile.
‘How is he? Did it all go all right?’ I asked, still breathing heavily.
‘He’s fine, absolutely fine. Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Get your breath back and I’ll take you through.’
It was weird, I hadn’t felt this concerned about someone - or something - for years.
I went into the surgical area and saw Bob lying in a nice warm cage.
‘Hello, Bob mate, how you doing?’ I said.
He was still very dopey and drowsy so didn’t recognise me for a while, but when he did he sat upright and started clawing at the doors of the cage as if to say: ‘Let me outta here.’
The nurse got me to sign a discharge notice and then gave Bob a good once over to make sure he was fit to leave.
She was really lovely and very helpful, which made a pleasant change after the previous experience I’d had at the vets’. She showed me where the incisions had been made. ‘It will stay swollen and sore around there for a couple of days, but that’s normal,’ she said. ‘Just check every now and again to make sure there’s no discharge or anything like that. If you notice that then give us a ring or bring him back in so we can check him out. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’
‘How long will he be groggy?’ I asked her.
‘Could be a couple of days before he’s back to his normal bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self,’ she said. ‘It varies a lot, some cats bounce back immediately. With others it kind of knocks the stuffing out of them for a couple of days. But they are normally as right as rain within forty-eight hours.
‘He probably won’t want to eat much the day after but his appetite will return fairly soon. But if he stays very sleepy and lethargic give us a ring or bring him in for a check-up. It’s very rare but cats sometimes get infections from the operation,’ she said.
I’d brought the recycling box along with me again, and was just about to pick Bob up to pick him up when she told me to wait.
‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I think we can do better than that.’
She went away for a couple of minutes and then produced a lovely, sky-blue carrying case.
‘Oh, that’s not mine,’ I said.
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s OK. We’ve got loads of spares, you can have this one. Just drop it back in when you’re next passing.’
‘Really?’
I had no idea how it had got there. Maybe someone had left it behind. Or maybe someone had brought their cat in and returned to discover that it would not be needed any more. I didn’t want to dwell on it too much.
It was obvious that the op had taken a lot out of Bob. In the carrier on the way home, he just lay there half asleep. The moment we got into the flat he slowly padded over to his favourite spot by the radiator and lay down. He slept there all night.
I took the day off work the next day to make sure he was OK. The advice from the vet was that he should be supervised for twenty-four to forty-eight hours after the operation to make sure there weren’t any side effects. I was to particularly look out for continuing drowsiness, which wasn’t a good sign. It was approaching the end of the week so I knew I’d need some money. But I could never have forgiven myself if something had gone wrong, so I stayed in the flat on twenty-four-hour Bob watch.
Fortunately, he was absolutely fine. The following morning, he was a bit perkier and ate a little bit of breakfast. As the nurse had predicted, he didn’t have his normal appetite but he ate half a bowl of his favourite food, which was encouraging. He also wandered around the flat a little bit, although, again, he wasn’t his normal ebullient self.
Over the next couple of days he began becoming more like the old Bob. Within three days of the op, he was wolfing down his food just like before. I could tell he was still in the occasional bit of pain. He would wince or come to a sudden stop every now and again, but it wasn’t a major problem.
I knew that he’d still have the odd mad half-hour, but I was glad I’d acted.
Chapter 4
Ticket To Ride
As the fortnight drew to a close, I realised that I had to think about getting Bob out of the flat and back on to the streets. That’s where he had come from – and I assumed that’s where he would want to return.
He’d continued to make really good progress and looked much healthier than he had done when I first met him. He’d fattened up a lot more too.
So a day or two after I’d completed the course of medicine and he’d recovered fully from his op, I took Bob downstairs and out through the hallway. I led him down the path and out towards the gate then pointed him in the direction of the street.
He just stood there, fixed to the spot, looking at me confused, as if to say: ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Go, go, go on,’ I said, making sweeping movements with my hands.
It had no effect whatsoever.
For a moment I just stood there, engaged in a miniature staring competition with him. But then he just turned on his heels and padded off, not in the direction of the street but towards the patch of ground where he liked to do his business. He then dug a hole, covered it all up, and strolled back towards me.
This time his expression said: ‘OK, I did what you wanted. What now?’
It was then that, for the first time, a thought began to crystallise in my head.
‘I think you want to hang around,’ I said quietly to him.
Part of me was pleased. I enjoyed his company and he was certainly a character. But, being sensible about it, I knew I shouldn’t let it happen. I was still struggling to look after myself. I was still on a drug dependency programme, and would be for the foreseeable future. How on earth was I going to look after a cat, even one as intelligent and self-sufficient as Bob? It wasn’t fair - on either of us.
So, with a heavy heart, I decided that I’d have to slowly start easing him out of
the flat during the day. When I went to work in the morning, I would no longer leave him in the flat. I’d take him out with me, then leave him outside in the gardens.
‘Tough love,’ I told myself.
He didn’t like it one bit.
The first time I did it, he shot me a look that said ‘traitor’. As I headed off with my guitar over my shoulder, he followed, quietly stalking me, zigzagging across the pavement like some spy, trying to remain unseen. Except it was easy to spot his distinctive ginger fur, bobbing and weaving around.
Each time I saw him, I’d stop and wave my arms, flamboyantly waving him back. He’d limp away, reluctantly, throwing me a few betrayed looks as he went. Eventually he’d get the message and disappear.
When I got back six or so hours later, he would be waiting for me at the entrance to the flats. Part of me wanted to prevent him from coming in. But that part was overwhelmed by the one that wanted to invite him up to the flat once more to curl up at my feet.
Over the course of the next few days the pair of us settled into a bit of a routine.
Each day I’d leave him outside and each night when I got back from busking, I’d find him waiting for me, either outside in an alleyway or - if someone had let him in during the day - sitting on the mat outside my flat. He wasn’t going away, that was obvious.
I decided I had to take the ultimate step and leave him out overnight. The first night I did it I saw him lurking in the area where the bins were kept. I tried to sneak in without him seeing me. It was a stupid move. He was a cat, he had more senses in one of his whiskers than I had in my entire body. No sooner had I opened the door to the building than he was there squeezing his way in. I left him outside in the hallway that night, but he was on my doormat when I emerged again in the morning. For the next few days we went through the same performance.
Each day I stepped outside he’d either be hanging around the hallway or would be waiting outside. Each night he’d find a way of getting into the building.
Eventually he decided that he’d won that particular battle. So I was soon dealing with another problem. He began following me down the main road.
The first time he came as far as the main road, but returned to the block when I shooed him away. The next time he tailed me for a hundred yards or so down the road, towards Tottenham High Road where I got the bus to Covent Garden.
A part of me admired his tenacity and sheer perseverance. But another part of me was cursing him. I simply couldn’t shake him off.
Each day after that he got further and further - becoming bolder and bolder. Part of me wondered whether one day, after I left him, he’d actually keep going and find somewhere else to go. But each night I got home, there he was - waiting. I knew that something had to give eventually though. And it did.
One day I headed out for work as usual. I had packed my large black acoustic guitar with its red trim on the edge of the body, slung it over my shoulder along with my rucksack and headed downstairs.
I saw Bob was sitting in an alleyway and said hello. When he started to follow me, I shooed him away, as usual.
‘Stay there, you can’t come where I’m going,’ I said.
This time he seemed to get the message and slunk off. As I headed down the road, I looked back occasionally to see if he was there, but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he’s finally getting the message, I said to myself.
To get to the bus stop that would take me to Covent Garden, I had to cross Tottenham High Road, one of the busiest and most dangerous roads in north London. This morning, as usual, cars, lorries and motorbikes were carving their way along the road, trying to pick their way through the clogged traffic.
As I stood on the pavement, trying to spot a gap so that I could run for the bus that was looming into view a hundred yards or so down the traffic-packed street, I felt someone – or something – rub against my leg. Instinctively, I looked down. I saw a familiar figure standing alongside me. To my horror, I could see that Bob was going through the same process as me, looking for his opportunity to cross.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I said to him.
He just looked at me dismissively, as if I’d just asked a really stupid question. Then he focused once more on the road, nudging himself nearer the edge of the kerb as if getting ready to make a dash for it.
I couldn’t let him risk it. It would almost certainly be suicide. So I swept him up and put him on my shoulder, where I knew he liked to sit. He sat there, snuggled up against the side of my head, as I sidestepped and weaved my way through the traffic and crossed the road.
‘All right, Bob, that’s far enough,’ I said to him as I put him down on the pavement and shooed him away again.
He sidled off down the street into the throng. Maybe now I’ve seen the last of him, I thought to myself. He really was a long way from home now.
A few moments later the bus pulled up. It was an old-fashioned red double-decker bus that you could jump on at the back. I went to sit on the bench at the back of the bus and was placing my guitar case in the storage space near where the conductor was standing when, behind me, I saw a sudden flash of ginger fur. Before I knew it, Bob had jumped up and plonked himself on the seat next to where I was sitting.
I was gobsmacked. I realised – finally – that I wasn’t ever going to shake this cat off. But then I realised something else.
I invited Bob to jump on my lap, which he did in the blink of an eye. A moment or two later, the conductor appeared. She was a cheerful West Indian lady and smiled at Bob, then me.
‘Is he yours?’ she said, stroking him.
‘I guess he must be,’ I said.
Chapter 5
Centre of Attention
For the next forty-five minutes or so, Bob sat quietly next to me, his face pressed against the glass of the bus window, watching the world go by. He seemed to be fascinated by all the cars, cyclists, vans and pedestrians whizzing past us; he wasn’t fazed at all.
The only time he pulled away from the window and looked to me for a little reassurance was when the blare of a police siren, a fire engine or an ambulance got a bit too close for comfort. This surprised me a bit and once more set me thinking about where he had spent his early life. If he had grown up on the streets he would have got used to this noise a long, long time ago.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I told him, each time giving him a friendly stroke on the back of the neck. ‘This is what the middle of London sounds like, Bob, better get used to it.’
It was odd, even though I knew he was a street cat and could run away at any time, I had this deep-seated feeling that he was here in my life to stay. Somehow I sensed this wouldn’t be the last time we’d make this trip together.
I was going to get off at my usual bus stop near Tottenham Court Road tube station. As it loomed into view, I picked up my guitar, scooped up Bob and headed for the exit. On the pavement, I fished around in my coat pocket and found the makeshift shoelace lead that I’d left in there after taking Bob out to do his business the evening before.
I put it around his neck then placed him down. I didn’t want him wandering off. The junction of Tottenham Court Road and New Oxford Street was bustling with shoppers, tourists and ordinary Londoners getting on with their day. He’d have been lost in a second – or, even worse, crushed by one of the buses or black cabs whistling towards and from Oxford Street.
Understandably, it was all a bit intimidating for Bob. It was unfamiliar territory for him - well, I assumed it was. I couldn’t be sure, of course. As we picked our way along I could tell from his slightly uptight body language and the way he kept looking up at me that he was uneasy. So I decided to take one of my normal short cuts through the back streets to get to Covent Garden.
‘Come on, Bob, let’s get you out of the crowds,’ I said.
Even then he wasn’t 100 per cent happy. Weaving our way through the throng, he kept shooting me looks as if to say he wasn’t quite sure about this. After only a few yards I could
tell that he wanted me to pick him up.
‘All right, but don’t make a habit of it,’ I said, gathering him up and placing him on my shoulders just as I’d done crossing Tottenham High Road. He’d soon settled into a comfortable spot, at a slight angle across my right shoulder blade, with his front paws placed on the top of my arm, looking out like the occupant of the bird’s nest on some pirate ship. I couldn’t help smiling inwardly. I must look a bit like Long John Silver, except I had a puss rather than a parrot sailing along with me.
He certainly seemed to be very comfortable there. I could feel him purring lightly as we walked through the throng, across New Oxford Street and into the smaller streets leading down towards Covent Garden.
The crowds had thinned out by now and after a while I began to forget Bob was there. Instead I started to immerse myself in the usual thoughts that went through my mind on the way to work. Was the weather going to be good enough for me to get a solid five hours’ busking? Answer: Probably. It was overcast, but the clouds were white and high in the sky. There wasn’t much chance of rain. What sort of crowd would there be in Covent Garden? Well, it was getting close to Easter so there were a lot of tourists. How long would it take me to make the twenty or thirty pounds I needed to get me - and now Bob - through the next few days? Well, it had taken me the best part of five hours the previous day. Maybe it would be better today, maybe it wouldn’t. That was the thing with busking; you just never knew.
I was mulling all these things over still when I was suddenly aware of something.
Ordinarily, no one would engage or even exchange a look with me. I was a busker and this was London. I didn’t exist. I was a person to be avoided, shunned even. But as I walked down Neal Street that afternoon almost every person we passed was looking at me. Well, more to the point, they were looking at Bob.