The World According to Bob

by James Bowen

  He then dabs a paw in my direction, almost as if to nudge me into recognising his message: ‘don’t ignore me! I’ve been awake for ages and I’m hungry, so where’s my breakfast?’ If my response is too slow, he sometimes steps up the charm offensive and does what I call a ‘Puss in Boots’. Like the character in the Shrek movies, he stands there on the mattress staring at me wide-eyed with his piercing green eyes. It is heartbreakingly cute – and totally irresistible. It always makes me smile. And it always works.

  I always keep a packet of his favourite snacks in a drawer by the side of the bed. Depending on how I am feeling, I might let him come up on the bed for a cuddle and a couple of treats or, if I am in a more playful mood, I’ll throw them on to the carpet for him to chase around. I often spend the first few minutes of the day lobbing mini treats around, watching him hunt them down. Cats are amazingly agile creatures and Bob often intercepts them in mid-flight, like a cricketer or baseball player fielding a ball in the outfield. He leaps up and catches them in his paws. He has even caught them in his mouth a couple of times. It is quite a spectacle.

  On other occasions, if I am tired or not in the mood for playing, he’ll entertain himself.

  One summer’s morning, for instance, I was lying on my bed watching breakfast television. It was shaping up to be a really warm day and it was especially hot up on the fifth floor of our tower block. Bob was curled up in a shady spot in the bedroom, seemingly fast asleep. Or so I’d assumed.

  Suddenly he sat up, jumped on the bed and, almost using it as a trampoline, threw himself at the wall behind me, hitting it quite hard with his paws.

  ‘Bob, what the hell?’ I said, gobsmacked. I looked at the duvet and saw a little millipede lying there. Bob was eyeing it and was clearly ready to crunch it in his mouth.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t mate,’ I said, knowing that insects can be poisonous to cats. ‘You don’t know where that’s been.’

  He shot me a look as if to say ‘spoilsport’.

  I have always been amazed at Bob’s speed, strength and athleticism. Someone suggested to me once that he must be related to a Maine Coon or a lynx or some kind of wild cat. It is entirely possible. Bob’s past is a complete mystery to me. I don’t know how old he is and know nothing about the life he led before I found him. Unless I did a DNA test on him, I’ll never know where he comes from or who his parents were. To be honest though, I don’t really care. Bob is Bob. And that is all I need to know.

  I wasn’t the only one who had learned to love Bob for being his colourful, unpredictable self.

  It was the spring of 2009 and by now Bob and I had been selling The Big Issue for a year or so. Initially we’d had a pitch outside Covent Garden tube station in central London. But we’d moved to Angel, Islington where we’d carved out a little niche for ourselves and Bob had built up a small, but dedicated band of admirers.

  As far as I was aware, we were the only human/feline team selling The Big Issue in London. And even if there was another one, I suspected the feline part of the partnership wasn’t much competition for Bob when it came to drawing – and pleasing – a crowd.

  During our early days together, when I had been a busker playing the guitar and singing, he had sat there, Buddha-like, watching the world going about its business. People were fascinated – and I think a bit mesmerised – by him and would stop, stroke and talk to him. Often they’d ask our story and I’d tell them all about how we’d met and formed our partnership. But that was about the extent of it.

  Since we’d been selling The Big Issue, however, he’d become a lot more active. I often sat down on the pavement to play with him and we’d developed a few tricks.

  It had begun with Bob entertaining people on his own. He loved to play, so I’d bring along little toys that he would toss around and chase. His favourite was a little grey mouse that had once been filled with catnip.

  The mouse had ceased to have any trace of catnip a long time ago and was now a battered, bedraggled and rather pathetic looking thing. Its stitching had begun to come apart and, although it had always been grey, it had now become a really dirty shade of grey. He had loads of other toys, some of which had been given to him by admirers. But ‘scraggedy mouse’, as I called it, was still his number one toy.

  As we sat outside Angel tube he would hold it in his mouth, flicking it from side to side. Sometimes he’d whirl it around by its tail and release it so that it flew a couple of feet away and then pounce on it and start the whole process all over again. Bob loved hunting real life mice, so he was obviously mimicking that. It always stopped people in their tracks and I’d known some commuters to spend ten minutes standing there, as if hypnotised by Bob and his game.

  Out of boredom more than anything else, I had started playing with him on the pavement. To begin with we just played at shaking hands. I’d stretch out my hand and Bob would extend his paw to hold it. We were only replicating what we did at home in my flat, but people seemed to find it sweet. They were constantly stopping to watch us, often taking pictures. If I’d had a pound for every time someone – usually a lady – had stopped and said something like ‘aah, how sweet’ or ‘that’s adorable’ I’d have been rich enough to, well, not have to sit on the pavement any more.

  Freezing your backside off on the streets isn’t exactly the most fun you can have, so my playtimes with Bob became more than simple entertainment for the passing crowds. It helped me to pass the time and to enjoy my days a little more too. I couldn’t deny it: it also helped encourage people to buy copies of the magazine. It was another one of the blessings that Bob had bestowed on me.

  We’d spent so many hours outside Angel by now that we’d begun to develop our act a little further.

  Bob loved his little treats, and I learned that he’d go to extraordinary lengths to get hold of them. So, for instance, if I held a little biscuit three feet or so above him, he’d stand on his hind legs in an effort to snaffle the snack from my hands. He would wrap his paws around my wrist to steady himself, then let go with one paw and try to grab it.

  Predictably, this had gone down a storm. By now there must have been hundreds of people walking the streets of London with images of Bob reaching for the sky on their telephones and cameras.

  Recently, we’d developed this trick even more. The grip he exerted when he grabbed my arms to reach the treat was as strong as a vice. So every now and again I would slowly and very gently raise him in the air so that he was dangling a few inches above the ground.

  He would hang there for a few seconds, until he let go and dropped down or I eased him back to earth. I always made sure he had a soft landing of course and usually put my rucksack under him.

  The more of a ‘show’ we put on, the more people seemed to respond to us, and the more generous they became, not just in buying The Big Issue.

  Since our early days at Angel, people had been incredibly kind, dropping off snacks and nibbles not just for Bob, but for me as well. But they had also started giving us items of clothing, often hand-knitted or sewn by them.

  Bob now had a collection of scarves in all sorts of colours. So many, in fact, that I was running out of space to keep them all. He must have had two dozen or more! He was fast becoming to scarves what Imelda Marcos had been to shoes.

  It was a little overwhelming at times to know that we were on the receiving end of such warmth, support and love. But I never for a moment kidded myself that there weren’t those who felt very differently about us. They were never very far away . . .

  It was approaching the busiest time of the week, the Friday evening rush hour, and the crowds passing in and out of Angel tube were growing thicker by the minute. While I wheeled around the street trying to sell my stack of magazines, Bob was totally oblivious to the commotion, flapping his tail absent-mindedly from side to side as he lay on my rucksack on the pavement.

  It was only when things had died down, around 7pm, that I noticed a lady standing a few feet away from us. I had no idea how long she had b
een there, but she was staring intently, almost obsessively at Bob.

  From the way she was muttering to herself and shaking her head from side to side occasionally, I sensed she disapproved of us somehow. I had no intention of engaging her in conversation, not least because I was too busy trying to sell the last few copies of the magazine before the weekend.

  Unfortunately, she had other ideas.

  ‘Young man. Can’t you see that this cat is in distress?’, she said, approaching us.

  Outwardly, she looked like a school teacher, or even a headmistress, from some upper-class public school. She was middle-aged, spoke in a clipped, cut-glass English accent and was dressed in a scruffy and un-ironed tweed skirt and jacket. Given her manner, however, I doubted very much that any school would have employed her. She was brusque, bordering on the downright aggressive.

  I sensed she was trouble, so didn’t respond to her. She was obviously determined to pick a fight, however.

  ‘I have been watching you for a while and I can see that your cat is wagging its tail. Do you know what that means?’ she said.

  I shrugged. I knew she was going to answer her own question in any case.

  ‘It means it’s not happy. You shouldn’t be exploiting it like this. I don’t think you’re fit to look after him.’

  I’d been around this track so many times since Bob and I had started working the streets together. But I was polite, so instead of telling this lady to mind her own business, I wearily began defending myself once again.

  ‘He’s wagging his tail because he’s content. If he didn’t want to be there, Madam, you wouldn’t see him for dust. He’s a cat. They choose who they want to be with. He’s free to run off whenever he wants.’

  ‘So why is he on a lead?’ she shot back, a smug look on her face.

  ‘He’s only on a lead here and when we are on the streets. He ran off once and was terrified when he couldn’t find me again. I let him off when he goes to do his business. So, again, if he wasn’t happy, as you claim, he’d be gone the minute I took the lead off wouldn’t he?’

  I’d had this conversation a hundred times before and knew that for 99 people out of that 100, this was a rational and reasonable response. But this lady was part of the 1 per cent who were never going to take my word for it. She was one of those dogmatic individuals who believed they were always right and you were always wrong – and even more wrong if you were impertinent enough not to see their point of view.

  ‘No, no, no. It’s a well-known fact that if a cat is wagging its tail it is a distress signal,’ she said, more animated now. I noticed that her face was quite red. She was flapping her arms and pacing around us rather menacingly.

  I could tell Bob was uncomfortable about her; he had an extremely good radar when it came to spotting trouble. He had stood up and begun backing himself towards me so that he was now standing between my legs, ready to jump up if things got out of hand.

  One or two other people had stopped, curious to see what the fuss was about so I knew I had witnesses if the lady did or said anything outrageous.

  We carried on arguing for a minute or two. I tried to ease her fears by telling her a little about us.

  ‘We’ve been together for more than two years. He wouldn’t have been with me two minutes if I was mistreating him,’ I said at one point. But she was intransigent. Whatever I said, she just shook her head and tutted away. She simply wasn’t willing to listen to my point of view. It was frustrating in the extreme, but there was nothing more I could do. I resigned myself to the fact that she was entitled to her opinion. ‘Why don’t we agree to differ?’ I said at one point.

  ‘Hffff,’ she said, waving her arms at me. ‘I’m not agreeing with anything you say young man.’

  Eventually, to my huge relief, she started walking away, muttering and shaking her head as she shuffled off into the crowds jostling around the entrance to the tube station.

  I watched her for a moment, but was soon distracted by a couple of customers. Fortunately, their attitude was the complete opposite of the one this lady had displayed. Their smiles were a welcome relief.

  I was handing one of them their change when I heard a noise behind me that I recognised immediately. It was a loud, piercing wheeeeeow. I spun round and saw the woman in the tweed suit. Not only had she come back, she was now holding Bob in her arms.

  Somehow, while I had been distracted, she had managed to scoop him up off the rucksack. She was now nursing him awkwardly, with no affection or empathy, one hand under his stomach and another on his back. It was strange, as if she’d never picked up an animal before in her life. She could have been holding a joint of meat that she’d just bought at the butcher or a large vegetable at a market.

  Bob was clearly furious about being manhandled like this and was wriggling like crazy.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ I shouted. ‘Put him down, right now or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘He needs to be taken somewhere safe,’ she said, a slightly crazed expression forming on her reddening face.

  Oh God no, she’s going to run off with him, I said to myself, preparing to drop my supply of magazines and set off in hot pursuit through the streets of Islington.

  Luckily, she hadn’t quite thought it through because Bob’s long lead was still tethered to my rucksack. For a moment there was a kind of stand-off. But then I saw her eye moving along the lead to the rucksack.

  ‘No you don’t,’ I said, stepping forward to intercept her.

  My movement caught her off guard which in turn gave Bob his chance. He let out another screeching wheeeeow and freed himself from the woman’s grip. He didn’t scratch her but he did dig his paws into her arm which forced her to panic and suddenly drop him on to the pavement.

  He landed with a bit of a bump, then stood there for a second growling and hissing and baring his teeth at her. I’d never seen him quite so aggressive towards anyone or anything.

  Unbelievably, she used this as an argument against me.

  ‘Ah, look, see, he’s angry,’ she said, pointing at Bob and addressing the half dozen or more people who were watching events unfold.

  ‘He’s angry because you just picked him up without his permission,’ I said. ‘He only lets me pick him up.’

  She wasn’t giving up that easily. She clearly felt she had some kind of audience and was going to play to them.

  ‘No, he’s angry because of the way you are treating him,’ she said. ‘Everyone can see that. That’s why he should be taken away from you. He doesn’t want to be with you.’

  Again there was a brief impasse while everyone held their breath to see what happened next. It was Bob who broke the silence.

  He gave the woman a really disdainful look, then padded his way back towards me. He began rubbing his head against the outside of my leg, and purring noisily when I put my hand down to stroke him.

  He then plonked his rear down on the ground and looked up at me again playfully, as if to say, ‘now can we get on with some more tricks?’ Recognising the look, I dipped my hand into my coat pocket and produced a treat. Almost immediately, Bob got up on his hind legs and grabbed hold of my arms. I then popped the treat into his mouth drawing a couple of audible aaahs from somewhere behind me.

  There were times when Bob’s intelligence and ability to understand the nuances of what’s going on around him defied belief. This was one such moment. Bob had played to the crowd totally. It was as if he had wanted to make a statement. It was as if he was saying: ‘I’m with James, and I’m really happy to be with James. And anyone who says otherwise is mistaken. End of story.’ That was certainly the message that most of the onlookers got. One or two of them were familiar faces, people who had bought magazines off me in the past or stopped to say hello to Bob. They turned to the woman in the tweed suit and made their feelings plain.

  ‘We know this guy, he’s cool,’ one young man in a business suit said.

  ‘Yes, leave them alone. They’re not d
oing anyone any harm and he looks after his cat really well,’ another middle-aged lady said. One or two other people made supportive noises. As various other voices chipped in, not one of them backed up the lady in the tweed suit.

  The expression that had formed on her face by this point told its own story. She was, by now, even redder than ever, almost purple in fact. She spluttered and grumbled for a moment or two but made no real sense. Clearly the penny had dropped and she realised that she had lost this particular battle. So she turned on her heels and disappeared once more into the crowds, this time – thankfully – permanently.

  ‘You OK, James?’ one of the onlookers asked me, as I kneeled down to check on Bob. He was purring loudly but his breathing was steady and there was no sign of any injury from when he was dropped to the ground.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, not being entirely honest.

  I hated it when people implied I was using Bob in some way. It hurt me deeply. In a way we were victims of our circumstances. Bob wanted to be with me, of that I was absolutely certain. He’d proven that time and time again. Unfortunately, at the moment, that meant that he had to spend his days with me on the streets. Those were the simple facts of my life. I didn’t have a choice.

  The downside was that this made us easy targets, sitting ducks for people to judge. We were lucky, most people judged us kindly. I had learned to accept that there would always be those who would not.

  Chapter 3

  The Bobmobile

  It was a balmy, early summer afternoon and I had decided to knock off from work early. The sunny weather seemed to have put a smile on everyone’s face and I’d reaped the benefits, selling out my supply of magazines in a few hours.

  Since I’d started selling The Big Issue a couple of years earlier, I’d learned to be sensible, so I’d decided to plough some of the money back into buying some more magazines for the rest of the week. With Bob on my shoulders, I headed over to see Rita, the co-ordinator on the north side of Islington High Street on the way back to catch the bus home.