Джеймс Боуэн - A Street Cat Named Bob

All of a sudden he began moving in a really agitated way, making weird retching noises as if he was choking or trying to clear his throat. I was convinced he was going to jump or fall off so I placed him down on the street to see what was wrong. But before I could even kneel down he began to vomit. It was nothing solid, just bile. But it just kept coming. I could see his body convulsing as he retched and fought to expel whatever it was that was making him sick. For a moment or two I wondered whether it was my fault and he felt queasy because of all the motion today.

But then he was sick again, retching away and producing more bile. It was clearly more than motion sickness. Pretty soon he didn’t have anything left to bring up, which was puzzling because he’d eaten well the night before and at breakfast. That was when I realised there must be more to it than this. He must have been sick already today, even before we left the flats, probably when he’d been in the garden doing his business. He must have been feeling sick during the bus journey too, I could now see. I blamed myself for not spotting it sooner.

It’s weird how you react in a situation like that. I’m sure my instincts were the same as any parent or pet owner. All sorts of crazy, sometimes conflicting thoughts rushed through my mind. Had he simply eaten something that disagreed with him this morning? Had he swallowed something in the flat that had set him off? Or was this something more serious? Was he going to drop dead in front of me? I’d heard stories about cats collapsing in front of their owners after drinking cleaning fluids or choking on bits of plastic. For a split second, an image of Bob dying flashed through my head. I managed to pull myself together before my imagination ran riot.

Come on, James, let’s deal with this sensibly , I told myself.

I knew that all the retching and the fact that he no longer had any liquid to bring up meant that he was getting dehydrated. If I didn’t do anything he could do damage to one of his organs. I decided that some food and, more importantly, some water, would be a good idea. So I scraped him up and held him in my arms as we walked on to Covent Garden and a general store I knew nearby. I didn’t have much cash on me at all, but I cobbled together enough to buy a liquidised chicken meal that Bob usually loved and some good, mineral water. I didn’t want to risk giving him contaminated tap water. That might make matters even worse.

I carried him to Covent Garden and placed it down on the pavement near our normal pitch. I got out Bob’s bowl and spooned the chicken into it.

‘Here we go, mate,’ I said, stroking him as I placed the bowl in front of him.

Ordinarily he would have pounced immediately and guzzled down a bowl of food at a rate of knots, but not today. Instead he stood and looked at it for a while before he decided to tuck in. Even then he was very tentative about it, only picking at the bowl. He only ate the jelly. He didn’t touch a bit of the meat. Again, it set the alarm bells ringing. This wasn’t the Bob I knew and loved. Something was definitely wrong.

I half-heartedly set myself up to start selling the magazine. We needed some money to get us through the next few days, especially if I was going to have to take Bob to a vet and pay for some drugs. But my heart really wasn’t in it. I was far more concerned with watching Bob than trying to capture the attention of passers-by. He lay there, impassive, uninterested in anything. Unsurprisingly, not too many people stopped to make a donation. I cut the day short after less than two hours. Bob hadn’t been sick again, but he definitely wasn’t right. I had to get him home to the warmth – and dryness – of the flat.

I guess I’d been lucky with Bob until now. Ever since I’d taken him under my wing, he had been in perfect health, 100 per cent tip top. He’d had fleas early on but that was to be expected of a street cat. Since I’d treated him for that and given him an early worming treatment, he’d suffered no health problems at all.

Every now and again I had taken him to the Blue Cross van on Islington Green where he’d been microchipped. The vets and vet nurses there knew him well by now and always commented on what good condition he was in. So this was alien territory for me. I was terrified that it might be something serious. As he lay on my lap on the bus returning to Tottenham, I felt the emotions welling up every now and again. It was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into tears. Bob was the best thing in my life. The thought of losing him was terrifying. I couldn’t keep that thought out of my head.

When we got home Bob just headed straight for the radiator where he just curled up and went straight to sleep. He stayed there for hours. That night I didn’t sleep much, worrying about him. He’d been too out of it to even follow me to bed and was snoozing under the radiator in the front room. I kept hauling myself out of bed to check on him. I’d creep up in the gloom and listen for the sound of his breathing. One time I was convinced he wasn’t and had to kneel down to place my hand on his diaphragm to make sure it was moving. I couldn’t believe how relieved I was when I found he was purring gently.

Money was so tight I simply had to go out again the following day. That presented me with a real dilemma. Should I leave Bob in the flat on his own? Or should I wrap him up warm and take him into central London with me so that I could keep an eagle eye on him.

Luckily the weather was a lot better today. The sun had decided to make an appearance. And when I wandered out of the kitchen with my cereal bowl in my hands, I saw Bob looking up at me. He looked a little perkier today. And when I offered him a little food he nibbled at it a lot more enthusiastically.

I decided to take him with me. It was still early in the week, so I’d have to wait a few days before I could get him looked at by the Blue Cross van. So, in advance of that, I decided to do some research and headed for the local library where I logged on to a computer and started researching Bob’s symptoms.

I’d forgotten what a bad idea it is to search through medical websites. They always give you the worst possible scenario.

I punched in a few key words and came across a couple of informative-looking sites. When I entered the main symptoms - lethargic, vomiting, appetite loss and a few others - a whole swathe of possible illnesses popped up.

Some weren’t too bad, for instance, it could have been down to hairballs or maybe even a bad case of flatulence. But then I started looking at other possibilities. Just the As in the list were bad enough. They included Addison’s disease, acute kidney disease and arsenic poisoning. As if they weren’t scary enough, other options on the long list included feline leukaemia, colitis, diabetes, lead poisoning, salmonella and tonsillitis. Worst of all, as far as I was concerned, one of the sites said it could be an early sign of bowel cancer.

By the time I’d been reading for fifteen minutes or so I was a nervous wreck.

I decided to switch tack and look at the best treatments for vomiting. That was more positive. The sites I looked at suggested plenty of water, rest and supervision. So that was my plan for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’d basically keep an eye on him around the clock. If he started vomiting again, obviously, I’d head for the vets immediately. If not, I’d go to the Blue Cross on Thursday.

The next day I decided to stay at home until late in the afternoon to give Bob a good chance to rest. He slept like a log, curled up in his favourite spot. I wanted to keep an eye on him. He seemed OK, so I decided to leave him for three or four hours and try and squeeze in some selling. I didn’t have much option.