Bob

   Life was blank. There wasn’t much left in it anyway. The dreadful war was over, and it had ended in what might be considered defeat. Not merely for the country, but for the countless who had gone out to the trenches, and I happened to be among them. After several months of gallant insanity, I, like several others who had been unfortunate enough to survive, found myself entirely beyond all hope, with a fairly crippled right leg, an ailment ridden body, and no opening or position at all. It was chiefly by virtue of a government scheme which entitled hapless, war-beaten sufferers like me to a certain monthly allowance that I was able to keep soul and body together, and shelter it in a seedy room which I found in one of the most insalubrious regions of the city.

    But, after the strange manner of human nature, I continued to live. I woke up each morning to the most pointless, insipid existence imaginable, but there always seemed to be something about it which was dimly alluring. I would pretend to be a person of activity, shambling out everyday to purchase the needful, and perhaps, the very rare luxury. I could have bought a week’s stuff at once, but it gave me a good feeling, a reason to think of and look forward to tomorrow. The occasional longer journeys were to the offices, with the all-important papers in hand, which would feed me for the next month. I would display them with a forced smile, trying also, to add a similitude of pride as I would bring out a cross of gleaming silver. It was the only relic I had of the war, apart from the agonies and those papers which I fiercely guarded.

    And the papers did need guarding. I even had to stay up some nights, for such was the menace of mice in my rooms that I felt no security even after I had locked it in the cabinet. It was only natural, since my ground floor room abutted upon one of the filthiest alleys of the city. It was too malodorous for me to even open my windows.The noises of stray animals as they would battle all night for the possession of the garbage bins strewn around there would rouse me continually, thus making me a watchful sentinel of the papers.

    This problem was largely solved when Bob came. Bob was a frail, ginger tomcat. He was aggressive, but rickety and ill-fed, which evidently led to a daily defeat in the back alley fights. I first came upon him nestled cozily in a corner of my room, having made his way in while I had briefly gone out that evening, forgetting to shut the door. He was a piteous spectacle, withered and scarred all over. I tried at first to scare him off, but finding himself threatened, his mellow purrs swiftly turned to growls, resolved to fight to the end. There was something pleasing about his tenacity, which I immediately rewarded with the leftovers of my humble dinner. Since then, Bob remained with me.

    He was a furry ball of animation, was Bob. The pleasure it gave me to watch him play about was more than I can describe. Brimming with alacrity and ever alert, he would jog all around the room and often up the stairway, only to be chased away by the indignant landlord, though certainly returning with some prize which he had made away with, usually meat, or even fish. Delight would gleam in his glassy eyes, the pride of having won his meal, or earned his keep. My additional efforts soon promoted a greater improvement of the state of his health. It soon showed in the replenishment of his fur, developing into a thick coat of fiery auburn, and in heightened alacrity. This, in a way, aided my recovery immensely, too. I could sleep with greater peace at night, knowing that my papers were safe under his beady eyes, glowing green and alert. And true to his task, every morning would find me with a considerable crop of dead mice, which he would faithfully take outside one by one upon my opening the door for him.

    That night, I sat writing a letter by candle-light, when a whim suddenly led me to bring out the papers again and glance through. I did so, and leafed wearily through the sheaf, recalling the storms of the war as I put them aside on the table and continued the letter to one of my few friends with renewed vigour of narration. I failed to continue long though, and went off to sleep, forgetting to put the candle out.

    I woke up to a sudden sound and discovered, with great consternation, that the candle had fallen! The flame was steadily consuming my papers, and had reduced much of them to a charred heap. Just at that moment, Bob, who had leapt onto the table and knocked the candle down, sprang off, singed by the fire. Making a wild dash for my bottle, I deluged the table, and it all went out in wispy smoke with a sizzle, leaving behind a black lump of nothingness.

    A cloud of unmitigated rage set in, and seeing as if through a haze, I bellowed and hurled all I could lay my hands on at Bob, who dashed out of the door I had forgotten to close. I sat broken, ruined and wide awake till dawn brought an explanation. The poor creature quite possibly thought I was planning to stay up, and must have dozed off, as a result. He had surely woken up to the sound of mice, and jumped onto the table to stave them off, bringing the candle down in the process.

    A thunderstorm swept over the city all morning, but nevertheless I waited for sometime, hoping he would return. I opened my window and called out, but to no avail. I went out in the rain and searched the alley, calling out for him in vain. I waited all day, and stayed up all night listening to the anarchical rumble of the mice inside and the combat outside. A distinct feline cry amidst the wild squabble in the storm swept lane suddenly fell upon my ears, and I grabbed my umbrella, running out into the night. I yelled out for Bob and rushed towards a dim, waning circle lit by a solitary lamp-post. There, drenched in rainwater and blood, lay my Bob. He had lost the war.