A Street Cat Named Bob

‘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. They 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.