James Bowen - A Street Cat Named Bob

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.

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.