Throughout Bob's admittedly long life, many people had found occasion to compare him to a cat.
Not all of these comparisons were favorable.
One particular member of the High Council at the time of Bob's indiscretion, i.e. the resurrection of his beloved Winifred, had jokingly implied that Bob's curiosity in the field of necromancy may land him in the same unfortunate situation as a certain fabled feline. No matter that countless centuries had passed since that particular prophecy had come true, Bob still wished a slow demise on the fellow as rudeness should always be punished.
But most comparisons were made with kindly intentions.
As lithe as, and ferocious as, as noble as…Bob had heard it all.
Recently, as in the last five years or so, Bob himself had begun to make some cat-esque connections. He often felt like an old, ill-tempered house cat when he was stuck at home all day, waiting for Harry to get back from an investigation; Bob would sometimes sit and stare at dust motes for hours, stuck inside the house, chained firmly to his skull, his only entertainment the occasional ring of the telephone or a colorful passer-by. Bob hated being an inside cat.
Winifred, when she had been alive, had always thought of Bob as a stray. When she first met him, one cold winter evening lifetimes ago, he had been wandering in the wilderness for days. He was cold, tired, hungry and in need of shelter. She took him in and fed him, gave him a place to sleep. She shouldn't have been surprised when he stayed. That's what strays do when you feed them.
Morgan, whenever he had occasion to see Bob, always thought of him as a tiger in a cage. Some ferocious, feral beast, barely contained, kept chained for the safety of everyone around him.
Harry, though he would never admit it, had also occasionally thought of Bob as a cat. An extremely touchy, independent, strong willed feline. The kind of cat who always wanted inside when it was out and outside when it was in. Bob had one expression in particular—a questioning tilt of his head coupled with an adorably quirked eyebrow, which reminded Harry very strongly of a cat he had known as a boy. He'd fed it scraps from the kitchens until Uncle Justin caught him and made him stop. He cried for days the first time he looked out the kitchen window after dinner and his feline friend hadn't appeared.
Harry often caught himself wishing he could stroke Bob's soft looking hair the same way he had petted that cat all those years ago, but he would generally settle for watching Bob pace while he worked out an equation, as twitchy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, or better yet seeing Bob find the solution to a problem he had been mulling over for awhile and getting that 'cat who got the canary' look on his face.
Yes, Harry thought, Bob was a darn good cat. Even though Harry couldn't pet him like he wanted, it was still nice to have him around.
Besides, with Bob incorporeal, Harry didn't have to buy any cat food.