by James Bowen
I could tell he was tired.
‘Don’t fancy it today, Bob?’ I said, stroking him.
He looked at me in that knowing way of his.
‘No problem,’ I said, heading to the kitchen to put some snacks in a bowl to keep him going for the rest of the day until I got home that evening.
I’d read a report once that said leaving the TV on made pets feel less lonely when their owners are out. I didn’t know whether that was true, but I switched the TV set on in any case. He immediately shuffled towards his favourite spot and started staring at it.
Going out that day really brought home to me the difference Bob had made to my life. With him on my shoulder or walking on the lead in front of me, I turned heads everywhere. On my own I was invisible again. By now we were well known enough to the locals for a few people to express concern.
‘Where’s the cat today?’ one local stall-owner said as he passed me by that evening.
‘He’s having a day off,’ I said.
‘Oh, good. I was worried something had happened to the little fella,’ he smiled, giving me the thumbs-up.
A couple of other people stopped and asked the same question. As soon as I’d told them Bob was fine they moved on. No one was quite as interested in stopping for a talk as they did when Bob was around. I may not have liked it, but I accepted it. That’s the way it was.
On the pavement at James Street, the sound of coins landing in the bag had become music to my ears; I couldn’t deny that. But without Bob I couldn’t help noticing that the music slowed down significantly. As I played I was conscious that I wasn’t making anywhere near as much money. It took me a few more hours to earn about half the cash I had made on a good day with Bob. It was back to the old days before Bob, but that was OK.
It was as I walked back that evening that something began to sink in. It wasn’t all about making money. I wasn’t going to starve. And my life was much richer for having Bob in it.
It was such a pleasure to have such great company, such a great companion. But somehow it felt like I’d been given a chance to get back on track.
It’s not easy when you are working on the streets. People don’t want to give you a chance. Before I had Bob, if I would try to approach people in the pubs with my guitar strap on, people would go ‘no, sorry’ before I’d even had a chance to say hello.
I could have been asking someone for the time. But they’d say to me: ‘no change, sorry’ before I opened my mouth. That happened all the time. They wouldn’t even give me the opportunity.
People don’t want to listen. All they see is someone they think is trying to get a free ride. They don’t understand I’m working, I’m not begging. I was actually trying to make a living. Just because I wasn’t wearing a suit and a tie and carrying a briefcase or a computer, just because I didn’t have a payslip and a P45, it didn’t mean that I was freeloading.
Having Bob there gave me a chance to interact with people.
They would ask about Bob and I would get a chance to explain my situation at the same time. They would ask where he came from and I’d then be able to explain how we got together and how we were making money to pay our rent, food, electricity and gas bills. People would give me more of a fair hearing.
Psychologically, people also began to see me in a different light.
Cats are notoriously picky about who they like. And if a cat doesn’t like its owner it will go and find another one. Cats do that all the time. They go and live with somebody else. Seeing me with my cat softened me in their eyes. It humanised me. Especially after I’d been so dehumanised. In some ways it was giving me back my identity. I had been a non-person; I was becoming a person again.
Chapter 7
The Two Musketeers
Bob wasn’t just changing people’s attitude to me: he was changing my attitude to others as well.
I’d never really had any responsibilities towards others in my life. I’d had the odd job here and there when I was younger in Australia and I’d also been in a band, which required a bit of teamwork. But the truth was that, since I left home as a teenager, my main responsibility had always been to myself. I’d always had to look after number one, simply because there wasn’t anyone else to do it. As a result, my life had become a very selfish one. It was all about my day-to-day survival.
Bob’s arrival in my life had dramatically changed all that. I’d suddenly taken on an extra responsibility. Another being’s health and happiness was down to me.
It had come as a bit of a shock, but I had begun to adapt to it. In fact, I enjoyed it. I knew it may sound silly to a lot of people, but for the first time I had an idea what it must be like looking after a child. Bob was my baby and making sure he was warm, well fed and safe was really rewarding. It was scary too.
I worried about him constantly, in particular, when I was out on the streets. In Covent Garden and elsewhere I was always in protective mode, my instincts were always telling me that I had to watch out for him at every turn. With good cause.
I hadn’t been lulled into a false sense of security by the way people treated me with Bob. The streets of London weren’t all filled with kind-hearted tourists and cat lovers. Not everyone was going to react the same way when they saw a long-haired busker and his cat singing for their suppers on street corners. It happened less now that I had Bob, but I still got a volley of abuse every now and again, usually from drunken young blokes who felt the fact they were picking up a pay packet at the end of the week made them somehow superior to me.
‘Get off your arse and do a proper day’s work you long-haired layabout,’ they would say, albeit almost always in more colourful language than that.
I let their insults wash over me. I was used to them. It was a different matter when people turned their aggression on Bob. That’s when my protective instincts really took over.
Some people saw me and Bob as easy targets. Almost every day, we’d be approached by idiots of some kind. They would shout stupid comments or stand there laughing at us. Occasionally, they would threaten to turn violent.
One Friday evening, quite soon after Bob and I had first come to Covent Garden together, I was playing at James Street when a bunch of young, very rowdy, black lads came past. They had real attitude, and were obviously on the lookout for trouble. A couple of them spotted Bob sitting on the pavement next to me and started making ‘woof’ and ‘meow’ noises, much to the amusement of their mates.
I could have coped with that. It was just stupid, puerile stuff. But then, for no reason whatsoever, one of them kicked the guitar case with Bob sitting in it. It wasn’t a playful tap with his toes, it had real venom in it, and sent the case - and Bob - sliding a foot or so along the pavement.
Bob was really distressed. He made a loud noise, almost like a scream, and jumped out of the case. Thankfully his lead was attached to the case otherwise he would almost certainly have run off into the crowds. I might never have seen him again. Instead, restrained by the lead, he had no option but to hide behind my rucksack, which was standing nearby.
I got up immediately and confronted the guy.
‘What the f*** did you do that for?’ I said, standing toe-to-toe with him. I’m quite tall and towered over him, but it didn’t seem to faze him.
‘I just wanted to see if the cat was real,’ he said, laughing as if he’d cracked a brilliant joke.
I didn’t see the funny side of it.
‘That’s really clever, you f******idiot,’ I said.
That was the signal for it all to kick off. They all began circling me and one of them began shoving into me with his chest and shoulders, but I stood my ground and shoved him back. For a split second or two there was a stand-off, but then I pointed to a CCTV camera that I knew was positioned on the corner near us.
‘Go on then, do what you want. But just remember: you’re on camera; see how far you get afterwards.’
The look on their faces was a picture I’d love to have captured - on CCTV or anywhere. Th
ey were obviously street smart enough to know you couldn’t get away with violence on camera. One of them gave me a look as if to say: ‘I will get you for that.’
Of course, they couldn’t back down without raining down another wave of insults. But they were soon moving on, waving their arms and making every offensive gesture known to man. Sticks and stones and all that. I wasn’t worried. In fact, I felt good about seeing them off. But I didn’t hang around much longer that evening. I knew their type. They didn’t take kindly to being ‘dissed’.
The incident proved a couple of things to me. First, it was always a good idea to be near a CCTV camera. It had been another busker who had first given me the advice to always try and pitch yourself near one. ‘You’ll be safer there,’ he said. Of course, I was too much of a know-all back then. Wasn’t it going to give the authorities evidence if I was busking illegally? I’d ignored the advice for a while. Slowly but surely, however, I’d seen the wisdom of his words and incidents like this underlined them.
That was the positive. The negative was that I’d been reminded of something I’d also known. I really was on my own when trouble flared like this. There wasn’t a policeman in sight. There wasn’t a whiff of a Covent Guardian or even any assistance from the staff in the tube station. Despite the fact that quite a lot of people were milling around when the gang confronted me, none of the passers-by offered to intervene. In fact, people did their best to melt into the background and shuffle off. Nobody was going to come to my aid. In that respect, nothing had changed. Except, of course, I now had Bob.
As we headed back up to Tottenham that evening he cozied up to me on the bus. ‘It’s you and me against the world,’ I said to him. ‘We’re the two Musketeers.’
He nuzzled up to me and purred lightly, as if in agreement.
The hard reality was that London was full of people who we had to treat with caution. Ever since I’d started bringing Bob with me I’d been wary of dogs, for instance. There were a lot of them, obviously, and it was no surprise that many of them took an instant interest in Bob. To be fair, in the vast majority of cases, people would notice if their dog was getting too close and give them a gentle tug on the lead. But others came too close for my comfort.
Fortunately Bob didn’t seem to be bothered about them at all. He just ignored them. If they came up to him he would just stare them out. Again, it underlined my suspicion that he’d begun his life on the streets, he’d learned to handle himself there. Just how well he could handle himself I found out a week or so after the incident with the gang.
We were sitting in Neal Street in the late afternoon when a guy with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier loomed into view. Arseholes always have Staffs, it’s a fact of London life, and this guy really looked like an arsehole. He was shaven-headed, swigging extra-strength lager and wearing a tatty tracksuit. From the way he was slaloming around the street, he was off his head already, even though it was barely 4p.m.
They slowed down when they got to us purely because the Staff was straining at the leash as it tried to move in the direction of me and Bob.
As it happened, the dog wasn’t threatening, he was just checking Bob out. Well, not even that, he was checking out the biscuits Bob had in front of him. He wasn’t eating them at the time so the Staffie started inching his way towards the bowl, sniffing excitedly at the prospect of a free titbit or two.
I couldn’t believe what happened next.
I’d seen Bob around dogs a fair bit by now. His normal policy was not to give them the time of day. On this occasion, however, he must have felt some action was necessary.
He’d been snoozing peacefully at my side. But as the Staffie leaned in towards the biscuits, he calmly looked up, picked himself up and then just bopped the dog on the nose with his paw. It was so lightning fast it was a punch to do Muhammad Ali proud.
The dog couldn’t believe it. He just jumped back in shock and then carried on backtracking.
I was almost as shocked as the dog, I think. I just laughed out loud.
The owner looked at me and then looked down at his dog. I think he was so drunk he couldn’t fully comprehend what had just happened, especially as it had occurred in the blink of an eye. He gave the dog a whack around the head then tugged on its lead to move on. I think he was embarrassed that his fearsome-looking beast had been made to look stupid by a cat.
Bob watched quietly as the dog, his head hung in shame, walked away. Within a few seconds he’d reverted back to his previous position, snoozing at my feet. It was as if it was a minor annoyance for him, like swatting a pesky fly. But for me it was a really revealing moment. It told me so much more about my companion and the life he had led before our fateful meeting at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t afraid to defend himself. In fact, he knew how to look after himself rather well. He must have learned to do that somewhere, maybe in an environment where there were lots of dogs - and aggressive ones at that.
Once more I found myself fascinated by the same old questions. Where had he grown up? What adventures had he had before he had joined up with me and become the second Musketeer?
Living with Bob was fun. As our little run-in with the Staffie proved, there was never a dull moment. He was a real personality, of that there was no doubt. He had all sorts of quirks to his character, and I was discovering more and more of them every day.
By now there was little doubt in my mind that he must have grown up on the streets. It wasn’t just his street-fighter skills, he wasn’t really domesticated in any way, he was a bit rough around the edges. Even now, after he’d been living with me for the best part of a month, he still didn’t like using the litter trays I’d bought for him. He really hated those things and would scamper away whenever I put one down anywhere near him. Instead he would hold on until he saw me going out of the door, and then do his business downstairs in the gardens of the flats.
I didn’t want it to carry on like this. For a start, it wasn’t much fun walking down - and up - five flights of stairs to take the cat out whenever he wanted to go to the toilet. So I decided to try and give Bob no option but to use the litter trays. One day during that third week I said to myself that I would go twenty-four hours without letting him out, so that he would have no alternative but to use the litter tray. But he won that contest hands down. He bottled everything up and waited - and waited and waited until I had to go out. Then he squeezed past me as I went out the door and bolted down the stairwell to get outside. Game, set and match to Bob. I realised it was a fight I was unlikely to win.
He also had a wild side to his personality. He was calmer than when he’d first arrived, thanks largely to the fact that he’d been neutered. But he could still be a complete maniac around the flat and would frequently tear around the place, playing with anything that he could lay his paws on. One day I watched him amuse himself for the best part of an hour with a bottle top, flipping it around the floor of the living room with his paws. Another time he found a bumblebee. It was obviously injured – it had one wing damaged – so it was struggling around on the coffee table in the living room. The bee was rolling around and every now and again it would fall off the table on to the carpet. Every time this happened, Bob would very gently pick it up with his teeth and put it back on the table. It was really impressive the way he could delicately pick the bee up by the wing and place it safely on the flat surface. He’d then watch it while it struggled around again. It was a really comical sight. He didn’t want to eat it. He just wanted to play with it.
The street instinct was still apparent when it came to food as well. When I took him downstairs to do his toilet now, he made a beeline for the area at the back of the flats where the dustbins were kept. The large ‘wheelie bins’ were often left open and occasionally there were discarded black, plastic refuse sacks, that had been ripped open by urban foxes or stray dogs. Bob would always go and investigate them to see if there were any leftovers. On one occasion I’d caught him dragging a chicken drumstick that had somehow been ove
rlooked by the other scavengers. Old habits die hard, I figured.
It was true, of course. Despite the fact I was feeding him on a regular basis, he still treated every meal as if it was going to be his last. At home in the flat, the moment I scooped some cat food into his bowl he would stick his face in it and start guzzling as if there was no tomorrow.
‘Slow down and enjoy your food, Bob,’ I’d tell him, but to no avail. Again, I figured he’d spent so long having to make the most of every eating opportunity that he hadn’t adapted to living in a place where he was guaranteed a square meal twice a day. I knew how that felt. I’d spent large chunks of my life living the same way. I couldn’t really blame him.
Bob and I had so much in common. Maybe that was why the bond had formed so fast - and was growing so deep.
The most irritating thing - literally - about him, however, was the fact that his fur had begun coating every corner of the flat.
It was perfectly natural, of course. Spring was here and he was getting rid of his winter coat. But he was starting to lose a hell of a lot of fur. To help the moulting process he was rubbing himself on anything and everything he could find in the flat. As a result he was covering it in a thick film of fur. It was a real pain.
It was a good sign that his coat - and the rest of his body - was returning to good health. He was still a bit scrawny, but there was no sign of his ribs as there had been when I’d first met him. His coat was naturally thin because of the environment he’d probably grown up in - the street. The medication had helped with his bald patches and the antibiotics had definitely done the trick in healing his old wound. That had almost disappeared now, in fact, if you didn’t know it was there you would never have noticed it.
All in all he looked in a lot better nick than he had done a month or so earlier.