As Christmas 2007 approached and our first calendar year together drew to a close, our life had settled into a real routine. Each morning I’d get up to find him waiting patiently by his bowl in the kitchen. He’d guzzle down his breakfast then give himself a good wash, licking his paws and face clean. Bob was still very reluctant to do his toilet inside the flat and most mornings I’d take him downstairs to relieve himself. On other occasions I’d leave him out and let him find his own way out to the grass. He’d find his way down and back up again without any trouble. I’d then get ready, pack up my rucksack, grab my guitar and head into town.
With Christmas only days away, the crowds in Covent Garden were getting bigger and bigger. So too were the number of treats and gifts Bob was getting. From the very early days, people had got into the habit of giving Bob little presents.
The first one came from a middle-aged lady who worked in an office not far from James Street and would regularly stop and talk to us. She’d had a ginger tom herself many years earlier and had told me that Bob reminded her of him.
She had arrived one evening with a big grin on her face and a smart bag from a fancy pet shop. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I bought Bob a little present,’ she said.
‘Of course not,’ I said.
‘It’s not much,’ she said, fishing out a little stuffed figure of a mouse.
‘It’s got a little catnip in it,’ she smiled. ‘Not a lot, don’t worry.’
There was a part of me that felt awkward about it. Catnip was, after all, addictive to cats. I’d read all sorts of stuff about how it can drive them crazy if they get hooked on it. It was bad enough with me trying desperately to straighten myself out. I didn’t want Bob developing a habit as well.
But she was too nice a lady to disappoint her. She stayed for a little while, relishing the sight of seeing Bob playing with the little mouse.
As the weather took a turn for the worse, people began to give Bob more practical presents.
One day another lady, a striking-looking Russian, sidled up to us smiling.
‘Hope you don’t mind, but with the weather turning cold, I thought I’d knit Bob something to keep him warm,’ she said, producing a beautiful, light-blue knitted scarf from her shoulder bag.
‘Wow,’ I said, genuinely taken aback. ‘That’s great.’
I immediately wrapped it around Bob’s neck. It fitted perfectly and looked fantastic. The lady was over the moon. She reappeared a week or two later with a matching blue waistcoat. I was no fashion expert, as anyone who met me would have been able to tell in an instant, but even I could tell that Bob looked amazing in it. People were soon queuing to take photographs of him in it. I should have charged; I would have made a fortune.
Since then at least half a dozen more people – well, women – had dropped off various items of knitted clothing for Bob.
One lady had even embroidered the name Bob into the little scarf that she had created for him. It struck me one day that Bob was becoming a fashion model. He was regularly modelling some new creation a kindly soul had made for him. It gave a new meaning to the word ‘catwalk’.
It just underlined what I’d realised already: that I wasn’t the only one who was forming a deep affection for Bob. He seemed to make friends with almost everyone he met. It was a gift I wished I had myself. I’d never found it that easy to bond with people.
No one had fallen more deeply in love with Bob than my ex-girlfriend Belle. We were still close friends, probably better friends than when we were together and she would pop round to the flat on a regular basis. It was partly to see me and hang out but I was pretty sure that she was also coming over to see Bob.
The two of them would play together for hours on the sofa. Bob thought the world of her, I could tell.
It was about three weeks before Christmas that she came round with a plastic shopping bag in her hand and a big grin on her face.
‘What have you got in there?’ I said, sensing she was up to something.
‘It’s not for you, it’s for Bob,’ she said, teasing me.
Bob was sitting in his usual spot under the radiator, but perked up the minute he heard his name mentioned.
‘Bob, come here, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Belle said, flopping on to the sofa with the bag. He was soon padding over, curious to find out what was inside.
Belle pulled out a couple of small animal T-shirts. One just had a picture of a cute-looking kitten on it. But the other one was red with green trim on it. It had the words ‘Santa Paws’ in large white letters with a big paw print underneath it.
‘Oh, that’s really cool Bob, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘That’s the perfect thing to wear when we’re in Covent Garden close to Christmas. That will really put a smile on people’s faces.’
It certainly did that.
I don’t know if it was the Christmas spirit or simply seeing him in his outfit, but the effect was amazing.
‘Ah, look it’s Santa Paws,’ I’d hear people say almost every few minutes.
A lot of people would stop and drop a bit of silver into my guitar case, others, however, wanted to give Bob something.
On one occasion this very well-heeled lady stopped and started cooing over Bob.
‘He’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘What would he like for Christmas?’
‘I don’t know, madam,’ I replied.
‘Well, put it this way, what does he need?’ she said.
‘He could do with a spare harness, I guess. Or something to keep him warm when the weather gets really cold. Or just get him some toys. Every boy likes toys at Christmas.’
‘Jolly good,’ she said, getting up and leaving.
I didn’t think much more of it, but then, about an hour later, the lady reappeared. She had a big grin on her face and was carrying a smart-looking hand-knitted stocking, with cat designs on the front. I looked inside and could see it was stuffed with goodies: food, toys and stuff.
‘You must promise me that you won’t open it till Christmas,’ she said. ‘You must keep it under your tree until Christmas morning.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have enough money for a Christmas tree or any decorations in the flat. The best I’d been able to rustle up was a USB Christmas tree that plugged into the battered old Xbox I’d recently found at a charity shop.
In the days after that, however, I made a decision. She was right. I should have a decent Christmas for once. I had something to celebrate. I had Bob.
I suppose I’d become desensitised to Christmas because I hadn’t had a decent one in years. I was one of those people who actively dreaded it.
During the past decade or so I’d spent most of them at places like Shelter, where they did a big Christmas lunch for homeless people. It was all very well meaning and I’d had a laugh or two there. But it just reminded me of what I didn’t have: a normal life and a normal family. It just reminded me that I’d cocked up my life.
Once or twice I’d spent it on my own, trying to forget the fact that my family was on the other side of the world. Well, most of it. On a couple of occasions, I’d spent the day with my father. After going missing for a year when I first ended up on the streets, I’d stayed in contact, calling him very occasionally and he’d invited me down to his house in south London. But it hadn’t been the greatest of experiences. He didn’t really think much of me. I couldn’t really blame him. I wasn’t exactly a son to be proud about.
I’d been grateful for a nice lunch and a few drinks and, most of all, a bit of company. But it hadn’t really been a great success and we hadn’t done it again.