The World According to Bob

tight, we’d walk to Angel. As we did so, Bob would sniff and stare whenever we went past what was clearly a cat house.
    If he ever saw another cat out and about he would let them know in no uncertain terms that this was his turf.
    Once when he saw a tabby cat, skulking around on Islington Green Bob had been transformed. He had been straining so hard to get at this upstart invading his territory, it had been as if I’d had a particularly aggressive dog on the end of the lead. He’d had to stamp his authority on the situation. Obviously, he’d already felt the need to do the same with Princess.
    If I had any reservations, they were that Princess might be a bit of an inconvenience. Dogs were so much more hard work than cats. For a start, you couldn’t put them on your shoulders as you walked down the street, a design flaw that, I soon discovered, slowed you down considerably.
    Walking to the bus stop Princess was a right royal pain. She pulled on the lead, stopped to sniff random patches of grass and veered off to squat down and go to the toilet no less than three times in the space of a couple of hundred yards.
    ‘Come on Princess, or we’ll never get there,’ I said, already regretting my decision. Suddenly I remembered why I had never wanted to adopt a dog as a pet.
    If I was struggling to establish some kind of control over her, however, Bob had no such trouble. On the bus, he took up his normal position on the seat next to the window, from where he kept a watchful eye on Princess, who was tucked under my feet. Bob’s face had always been expressive. The looks he gave Princess whenever she encroached on his territory during the journey were hilarious. The area under the seat wasn’t exactly spacious and Princess would occasionally wiggle to improve her position. Each time she did so Bob would give her a look that simply said: ‘why don’t you sit still you stupid dog?’.
    Outside the weather was atrocious, with rain hammering down. Arriving in Islington, I took Bob to the little park at Islington Green to quickly do his business and decided to let Princess do the same. Big mistake. She took forever to find a suitable spot. I then realised I’d forgotten to bring any plastic bags with me so had to fish around in a rubbish bin to find something with which to scoop up her droppings. I really wasn’t enjoying my day as a dogsitter, I decided.
    With the rain getting heavier by the minute, I took shelter under the canopy of a café. When a waitress appeared I decided I might as well ask her for a cup of tea, a saucer of milk for Bob and some water for Princess. I then popped inside to use the toilet, leaving my two companions tied to the table with their leads.
    I only left them for a couple of minutes, but when I got back it was clear that some kind of jostling for position had been going on. I’d left them with Bob sitting on a chair and Princess standing under the table. But when I came back Bob was sitting on the table, lapping at a saucer of milk, while Princess was sitting under the table looking far from happy with her bowl of water. I had no idea what had gone on, but Bob had clearly established himself as the senior partner once again.
    As always, Bob was also attracting attention from passers-by. Despite the weather, a couple of ladies stopped to stroke him and say hello. But poor Princess was hardly even acknowledged. It was as if she wasn’t even there. In a funny way, I knew how she felt. I live in Bob’s shadow sometimes.
    The rain eventually eased off and we headed towards Angel and our pitch. While Bob and I took up our usual positions, Princess lay down a few feet away with her head deliberately placed so that she could take in most of the scene around us. Part of me had thought she’d be a burden but it turned out to be quite the opposite: she proved to be rather a useful asset.
    As I paced around trying to persuade passers-by to fork out a couple of quid for a magazine, Princess sat there attentively, her head on the pavement and her eyes swivelling around like surveillance cameras, carefully weighing up everyone who approached us. If they got her seal of approval, she remained rooted to the spot, but if she had any suspicions she would suddenly sit upright ready to intervene. If she didn’t like the cut of someone’s jib she would let out a little growl or even a bark. It was usually enough to get the message across.
    An hour or so after we’d settled down, a drunk carrying a can