The World According to Bob

can make. I’d done it before, but hadn’t heeded the lesson. Sure enough, within about half an hour I’d convinced myself that Bob’s symptoms were consistent with a really serious kind of worm, a hookworm or a tapeworm. Neither is usually a fatal illness, but they can be really nasty, causing severe loss of weight and a deterioration in the coat if untreated.
    I knew I had no option but to check his poo the next time he went to the toilet. I didn’t have to wait long. Within about an hour of us settling down at Angel, he started making his tell-tale noises and gestures and I had to take him off to the Green. I braced myself to sneak a quick look before he covered up his business in the soft earth. He didn’t take kindly to my intrusion.
    ‘Sorry, Bob, but I’ve got to take a peek,’ I said, inspecting his droppings with a twig.
    It may sound bizarre, but I was delighted when I saw some tiny, white wiggly creatures in there. It was worms, but only tiny little ones.
    ‘At least it’s not tapeworm or hookworm,’ I consoled myself for the rest of that day.
    Heading home that night I felt a strange, slightly confusing mix of emotions. The responsible cat owner in me was really miffed. I was so careful about his diet, avoiding raw meats and other things that are known to be risky when it comes to worms. I had also been diligent in making sure he was regularly checked for fleas, which can act as hosts for worms. He was also a really clean and healthy cat, and I made sure the flat was in a decent condition for him to live. I felt like it reflected badly on me. I felt like I’d let him down a little bit. On the other hand, however, I was relieved that I now knew what I needed to do.
    As luck would have it, I knew the Blue Cross drop-in van was going to be at Islington Green the following day. So I made sure that we headed off early to beat the lengthy queues that always built up before the clinic began.
    The staff there knew Bob and I well; we’d been regular visitors over the years. Bob had been micro-chipped there and I’d spent the best part of a year dropping in to slowly pay off the fees I’d incurred for that and other treatments. I’d also had him checked out frequently, including for fleas, ironically.
    The vet who was on duty that morning asked me to describe the problem, then took a quick look at Bob and a sample of poo that I’d put in a plastic, pill container I had lying around the house before coming to a predictable conclusion.
    ‘Yes, he’s got worms I’m afraid, James,’ he said. ‘What’s he been eating lately? Anything out of the ordinary? Been rummaging in the bins or anything like that?’
    It was as if a light had gone on in my head. I felt so stupid.
    ‘Oh, God, yes.’
    I’d completely forgotten about the tin can incident. He must have found a piece of old chicken or other meat in there. How could I have failed to see that?
    The vet gave me a course of medication and a syringe with which to apply it.
    ‘How long will it take to clear things up?’ I asked.
    ‘Should be on the mend within a few days, James,’ he said. ‘Let me know if the symptoms persist.’
    Years earlier, when I’d first taken Bob in and had to administer antibiotics to him I’d had to do it by hand, inserting tablets in his mouth and then rubbing his throat to help them on their way down into his stomach. The syringe would, in theory, make that process simpler. But he still had to trust me to insert the contraption down his throat.
    Back at the flat that evening, I could tell that he didn’t like the look of it. But it was a measure of how much he trusted me that he immediately let me place the plastic inside his mouth and release the tablet before rubbing his throat. I figured that he must know I wouldn’t do anything to him that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
    As the vet had predicted, Bob was back to his normal self within a couple of days. His appetite waned and he was soon eating and going to the toilet normally again.
    As I thought about what had happened, I gave myself a ticking off. The responsibility of looking after Bob had been such a positive force in my life. But I needed to live up to that responsibility a little better. He wasn’t a part time job that I could clock into whenever the mood took me.
    I felt particularly negligent because it wasn’t the first time Bob had suffered because of his habit of rummaging in bins. A year or so earlier, he’d got quite sick after