A Street Cat Named Bob by James Bowen Read Free Book Online

out overnight. The first night I did it I saw him lurking in the area where the bins were kept. I tried to sneak in without him seeing me. It was a stupid move. He was a cat, he had more senses in one of his whiskers than I had in my entire body. No sooner had I opened the door to the building than he was there squeezing his way in. I left him outside in the hallway that night, but he was on my doormat when I emerged again in the morning. For the next few days we went through the same performance.
    Each day I stepped outside he’d either be hanging around the hallway or would be waiting outside. Each night he’d find a way of getting into the building.
    Eventually he decided that he’d won that particular battle. So I was soon dealing with another problem. He began following me down the main road.
    The first time he came as far as the main road, but returned to the block when I shooed him away. The next time he tailed me for a hundred yards or so down the road, towards Tottenham High Road where I got the bus to Covent Garden.
    A part of me admired his tenacity and sheer perseverance. But another part of me was cursing him. I simply couldn’t shake him off.
    Each day after that he got further and further - becoming bolder and bolder. Part of me wondered whether one day, after I left him, he’d actually keep going and find somewhere else to go. But each night I got home, there he was - waiting. I knew that something had to give eventually though. And it did.
     
    One day I headed out for work as usual. I had packed my large black acoustic guitar with its red trim on the edge of the body, slung it over my shoulder along with my rucksack and headed downstairs.
    I saw Bob was sitting in an alleyway and said hello. When he started to follow me, I shooed him away, as usual.
    ‘Stay there, you can’t come where I’m going,’ I said.
    This time he seemed to get the message and slunk off. As I headed down the road, I looked back occasionally to see if he was there, but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he’s finally getting the message , I said to myself.
    To get to the bus stop that would take me to Covent Garden, I had to cross Tottenham High Road, one of the busiest and most dangerous roads in north London. This morning, as usual, cars, lorries and motorbikes were carving their way along the road, trying to pick their way through the clogged traffic.
    As I stood on the pavement, trying to spot a gap so that I could run for the bus that was looming into view a hundred yards or so down the traffic-packed street, I felt someone – or something – rub against my leg. Instinctively, I looked down. I saw a familiar figure standing alongside me. To my horror, I could see that Bob was going through the same process as me, looking for his opportunity to cross.
    ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I said to him.
    He just looked at me dismissively, as if I’d just asked a really stupid question. Then he focused once more on the road, nudging himself nearer the edge of the kerb as if getting ready to make a dash for it.
    I couldn’t let him risk it. It would almost certainly be suicide. So I swept him up and put him on my shoulder, where I knew he liked to sit. He sat there, snuggled up against the side of my head, as I sidestepped and weaved my way through the traffic and crossed the road.
    ‘All right, Bob, that’s far enough,’ I said to him as I put him down on the pavement and shooed him away again.
    He sidled off down the street into the throng. Maybe now I’ve seen the last of him , I thought to myself. He really was a long way from home now.
    A few moments later the bus pulled up. It was an old-fashioned red double-decker bus that you could jump on at the back. I went to sit on the bench at the back of the bus and was placing my guitar case in the storage space near where the conductor was standing when, behind me, I saw a sudden flash of ginger fur. Before I knew it, Bob had jumped up and plonked himself on the