Free A Street Cat Named Bob by James Bowen

it was that I didn’t really feel like it was ever going to become a reality. Mentally, at least, the band was something I put on the back-burner. It was too easy to slip back into old habits - quite literally.
    By 2005 I’d accepted that the band was a hobby, not a way of making a living. Pete carried on with the record label and still runs it now, I believe. But I was struggling so badly with my habit that I fell by the wayside - again. It became another one of those second chances that I let slip through my fingers. I guess I’ll never know what might have been.
    I’d never given up on music, however. Even when the band broke up and it was clear that I wasn’t going to get anywhere professionally, I would spend hours most days playing on the guitar, improvising songs. It was a great outlet for me. God knows where I’d have been without it. And busking had certainly made a difference to my life in recent years. Without it - and the money it generated - I dread to think what I would have ended up doing to earn cash. That really didn’t bear thinking about.
     
    That evening, as I settled down into the session, the tourists were once more out in force.
    It was a repeat of the previous day. The moment I sat down – or, more precisely, the moment Bob sat down - people who would normally have rushed by began to slow down and interact with him.
    Again, it was women rather than men who showed the most interest.
    Not long after I’d started playing, a rather stony-faced traffic warden walked past. I saw her look down at Bob and watched as her face melted into a warm smile.
    ‘Aah, look at you,’ she said, stopping and kneeling down to stroke Bob.
    She barely gave me a second glance and didn’t drop anything into the guitar case. But that was fine. I was beginning to love the way that Bob seemed to be able to brighten up people’s days.
    He was a beautiful creature, there was no doubt about that. But it wasn’t just that. There was something else about Bob. It was his personality that was attracting the attention. People could sense something about him.
    I could sense it myself. There was something special about him. He had an unusual rapport with people, well, people he knew had his best interests at heart, at least.
    Every now and again I’d see him bridle a bit when he saw someone he didn’t like. As we settled down, a very smart, rich-looking Middle-Eastern guy walked past, arm-in-arm with a really attractive blonde. She could easily have been a model.
    ‘Oh, look. What a gorgeous cat,’ she said, suddenly stopping in her tracks and pulling on the guy’s arm to slow him down. The guy looked distinctly unimpressed and flicked his hand dismissively, as if to say, ‘So what?’
    The instant he did so Bob’s body language changed. He arched his back ever so slightly and shifted his body position so that he was a few inches closer to me. It was subtle - but to me it was really telling.
    I wonder whether this guy reminds Bob of someone from his past? I thought to myself as the couple walked on. I wonder whether he had seen that look before?
    I’d have given anything to know his story, discover what had led him to the hallway of my block of flats that evening. But that was something I never was going to know. It would always be guesswork.
    As I settled into my set I was much more relaxed than twenty-four hours earlier. I think having Bob there the previous day had thrown me a bit, psychologically. I’d been used to having to engage and draw in the crowds myself. It had been hard work. Eking out every penny was tough. With Bob it was different. The way he’d sucked in the audience for me had been a bit odd at first. I’d also felt very responsible for him with so many people around. Covent Garden - like the rest of London - has its share of weirdoes. I was terrified that someone would just grab him and run off with him.
    But that day felt different, however. That day I felt like we were safe, like we kind of