The World According to Bob

rang a friend, Rosemary, a vet who had helped us out once before when Bob had been ill. She loved Bob and was always willing to help. When I explained what had happened she told me that whatever it was I needed to get it washed off.
    ‘Motor and engine oil can be highly toxic to cats, especially if it’s ingested or inhaled. It can cause really bad inflammation and burning of organs, especially the lungs. It can also cause breathing problems, seizure and even death in really bad cases,’ she said, scaring me.  ‘So you really need to wash it off him. Does Bob let you bathe him?’ she said. ‘If it doesn’t come off, you should take him to the Blue Cross or another vet first thing in the morning,’ she said just before I ran out of credit and my phone cut out.
    Cats seem to fall into two categories when it comes to bath time: there are those who hate it and those that love it. Luckily, Bob falls well and truly into the second camp. In fact, he is a bit obsessed with his bath.
    He loves nothing more than climbing into the tub when I run a bath. He has learned that I always run a warm bath rather than a steaming hot one and hops into the tub so that he can paddle around in it for a few minutes.
    It is funny – and, of course, very cute – to watch him walking around afterwards as he lifts and shakes one paw at a time.
    He also gets very possessive about the bath plug and steals and hides it. I end up using a makeshift plug only to find the real plug lying on the living room floor where Bob has been playing with it.
    Sometimes I have to put a jug with a weight on it over the plug to stop him from stealing and hiding it.
    So given all that it was no problem getting him into the bath so that I could get this mystery grease off his tail.
    I didn’t have to hold him down. I used both hands to rub his tail and his side using some cat-friendly shower gel. I then hosed him down with the shower head. The expression on his face as the jets of water soaked into his body was hilarious, a mix of a grimace and a grin. Finally I dried him off as best I could with a towel. Again he didn’t need much persuasion to be rubbed down. He loved it and was purring throughout.
    I managed to get all of the nasty stuff off him. But there was still a faint stain on his tail and body. Over the next few days, however, he was able to lick it and it slowly began to disappear. I popped into the Blue Cross at Islington later that week and got them to give him a quick check up. They told me there was nothing to worry about.
    ‘Easier said than done, there’s always something to fret about with this one,’ I said to the nurse, realising afterwards that I’d actually begun to sound a little like a parent.

    The incident on the tube reminded me of a truth that I always kept in my mind. In the years since we’d found each other, I’d domesticated Bob to a certain degree. When it came down to it though, he remained a stray cat at heart.
    I can’t be 100 per cent certain, but my gut feeling is that he must have spent a large part of his young life living off his wits on the streets. He is a Londoner, born and bred, and is never happier than when he is exploring it. I often smile to myself and say ‘ you can take the cat out of the street, but you can’t take the street out of the cat ’.
    He has a few favourite haunts. At Angel, he loves visiting Islington Memorial Green, the little park where he is free to rummage around in the bushes, sniffing out whatever caught his interest while he did his business. There are a few overgrown corners where he can discreetly disappear for a few moments of privacy. Not that privacy bothers him too much.
    He is also, for instance, very fond of the grounds of St Giles in the Fields churchyard just off Tottenham Court Road. Often, when we walk from our bus stop on Tottenham Court Road towards Neal Street and Covent Garden, he starts moving around on my shoulder letting me know that he wants to make it a port of call.
    The graveyard at St Giles is an oasis in the middle of one of the busiest parts of the city, with benches to sit and watch the world go by. For some reason, however, Bob’s favourite toilet spot there is actually in full view of the street, by a set of railings on a wall. He is unfazed by the flood of Londoners passing by and quietly goes about his business there.
    It was a similar story when we were working on Neal Street where his preferred option was outside an office block on Endell