On the weekend, I took my dog to the vet for a vaccination. While waiting in line, I noticed a shabby yet tidy elderly man who looked familiar. Upon closer inspection, I realised it was my neighbour, Nigel Chester. The old man fussed about, calling for the vet. I approached him.
“What’s happened?”
“A car hit a dog—I picked it up right off the road. It needs surgery, urgently.”
“Nigel, do you have enough money?”
“I don’t know, love.”
Chester began emptying his pockets, scraping together about £10. He brightened.
“Should be enough. Did some odd jobs, had a bit put aside.”
The dog, a greyhound by the look of it, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Broken legs—at least £100, easy. A well-dressed man holding an outrageously expensive Savannah cat glanced our way.
“Couldn’t just leave the poor thing, could I?” Chester sighed. “Was crying out in the road. Everyone just drove past, in such a hurry. But it’s a living soul, isn’t it? I’ll ring my wife, Mabel—she’s got another £3 stashed away. Just in case.”
The man with the Savannah cat beckoned me.
“You know him?”
“He lives next door. Had a three-legged shepherd once—lived to fifteen. Found it hit by a car too, but the owners refused to take it back.”
“Right,” the man said, then walked to reception.
“Call the surgeon and take the old man’s dog. Put it on my bill—take his money, but don’t tell him the cost.”
The surgeon was called. The bill came to nearly £170. Chester’s £10 covered a fraction—the rest was paid by the man with the cat, Edward Whitmore. After my dog’s jab, I left. Chester waited outside the operating room. Time passed, and soon the greyhound was limping around our neighbourhood, either with Chester or his wife, Mabel.
“Afternoon, Nigel.”
“Afternoon, love.”
“Dog’s still with you, then?”
“Aye. My son tracked down the owners. They said she wasn’t show quality anymore—didn’t want her. Ah well, we’ll manage. My boy bought special food and vitamins for her. I even got a job as a caretaker—£120 a week. We’re all right. Named her Lady.”
A couple of months later, I was back at the same clinic—my old spaniel, Jack, wasn’t well. We queued up. Then Chester appeared, clutching a kitten. It was a horrible sight—cut up and covered in tar. He counted out his coins, brow furrowed. Not enough.
“Took it off some lads,” he muttered. “Little devils sliced it, poured tar on it. Proper nasty, that.”
“I suppose we just need the Savannah cat bloke now,” I thought.
The door swung open, and in walked Edward Whitmore, his Bagheera in tow. His eyes locked onto Chester, who was still counting pennies. Blood and tar dripped from the kitten.
“Karma, honestly,” Edward muttered, heading straight for reception.
“Take the old man and the cat—I’ll cover it,” he said.
The kitten went into surgery, Jack was examined, and Edward paid for everything before leaving. Chester kept the cat, calling him Mister.
Spring came, and I went to buy flea treatment for our pets. There was Edward Whitmore. We exchanged hellos.
“Missing Chester and his menagerie?” he joked.
“He’ll be along,” I smiled.
The door opened. In came Chester, something bundled in his coat. His wife Mabel followed.
“What now?” I asked.
“Mabel here rescued this bird from some strays. Gave him a right thrashing. Still, lovely bird,” Chester said, pulling a bedraggled macaw from under his damp coat.
I sank into a chair. Edward rifled through his wallet.
“That’s someone’s pet,” I said. “Bet it’s got a name. Alfred, maybe?”
The macaw lifted its scruffy head, looked at me, and squawked, *”Karma! Karma!”*
“Karma,” Edward sighed, pulling out his wallet and heading to reception.
Chester scratched his head, grinning. “Well, if anything else turns up, I’ll bring it here—good rates.”
Edward decided not to switch vets. He left his card behind. “If Chester—Nigel Chester—brings in any animal, call me. I’ll cover it.”
Can’t escape it—karma.
(Author: Elena Andriyash)
