The World According to Bob

growled, got himself up and slinked off. He knew he’d been rumbled and didn’t like it. He was soon heading off in the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue, probably to prey on someone else.
    The instant the guy disappeared around the corner, Bob’s body language lightened and he had a renewed interest in the snacks.
    ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ I said, slipping a little biscuit into his mouth. ‘He’s gone on his way. We won’t see him again.’
    The street was particularly busy that day and we’d soon collected more than enough to get Bob and me a few days’ worth of shopping in our local shop. When I started packing up, Bob didn’t need a second invitation to jump up on to my shoulders. It was getting colder by the minute.
    I knew he’d need to do his business before we got the bus home, so we headed for his regular spot outside the posh office block on Endell Street.
    To get to this spot we had to walk down one of the narrower and less well lit streets in the area. As we did so, the world suddenly turned quiet. London could be like that at times. One minute it was full to bursting, the next it was deserted. It was part of the city’s many contradictions.
    I was halfway down the street when I felt Bob moving on my shoulder. At first I thought he was simply dying to go to the toilet.
    ‘Hold on for another second, mate,’ I said. ‘We’re almost there.’
    But I soon realised he was repositioning himself and, unusually for him, had turned himself to look backwards rather than forwards.
    ‘What’s wrong, Bob?’ I said, turning around.
    I looked down the street. There was a guy locking up his coffee shop for the evening and that was about it. I thought nothing more of it. The coast seemed clear enough to me.
    Bob didn’t seem quite so convinced. Something was definitely bothering him.
    I’d barely taken a dozen steps when all of a sudden he made the loudest noise I’d ever heard him make. It was like a primal scream, a piercing wheeeeeow followed by a really loud hissed hsssssssss . At the same time I felt a tug on my rucksack and then an almighty scream, this time from a human.
    I swung round to see the bloke who had been staring at us earlier on Neal Street. He was bent over double and was holding his hand. I could see the back of it and saw that there were huge scratches. Blood was gushing from his wounds.
    It was obvious what had happened. He had made a lunge for my rucksack. Bob must have dropped himself over my back and lashed out with his claws. He’d dug them deep into this guy’s hands, ripping into the skin. He was still in fighting mood too. Bob was standing on my shoulder, snarling and hissing.
    But the guy wasn’t finished. He lunged at me with his fists but I managed to dodge him. It was hard to do much with Bob balanced on my shoulder, but I landed a well-directed kick to the guy’s leg. I was wearing my really heavy Dr. Martens boots so it had the desired effect and he dropped to his knees for a second.
    He was soon back on his feet, though. For a moment we just stood there shouting at each other.
    ‘F***ing cat, look what it’s done to my f***ing hand,’ he said, waving his bleeding arm at me in the gloom.
    ‘Serves you right, you were going to mug me,’ I said.
    ‘I’ll f***ing kill it if I see it again,’ he said pointing at Bob. There was another brief standoff while the guy looked around the street. He found a small piece of wood which he waved at me a couple of times. Bob was screeching and hissing at him more animatedly than ever. The guy took one step towards us with the piece of wood then thought better of it and just tossed it to one side. After letting fly with another stream of expletives, he turned on his heels and stumbled off into the gloom, still holding his hand.
    On the bus back home, Bob sat on my lap. He was purring steadily and had tucked his head under my arm, as he often did when he – or I – felt vulnerable. I guessed we were both feeling that way after our encounter, but I couldn’t be sure, of course.
    That was the joy and frustration of having a cat. ‘Cats are mysterious kind of folk – there is more passing in their minds than we are aware of,’ Sir Walter Scott wrote. Bob was more mysterious than most. In many ways, that was part of his magic, what made him such an extraordinary companion. We had been through so much together, yet he still had the ability to startle and surprise me. He’d done it again this evening.
    We’d had our fair