On my day off, I took my dog to the vet for its vaccination. While waiting in line, I noticed an elderly man—unkempt yet tidy—who looked familiar. After a closer look, I realised it was my neighbour, Nigel Thompson. He fussed about, calling for the vet. I approached him.
“What’s happened?”
“A dog got hit by a car. I picked it up right from the road. It needs surgery, urgently.”
“Dad, do you even have enough money?”
“Don’t know, love.”
Nigel emptied his pockets, scraping together about £10. He brightened.
“That ought to cover it. Did a bit of work on the side—had some spare.”
The dog, a greyhound by the look of it, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Judging by its injuries—probably broken legs—it’d cost at least £100. A well-dressed man holding an absurdly expensive Siamese cat glanced our way.
“Couldn’t just leave the poor thing, could I?” Nigel muttered. “It was screaming on the road. Everyone just drove past, in such a hurry. A living soul, suffering.” He pulled out an old mobile. “My missus, Margaret, she’s got another £3 or so. She’ll bring it over, just in case.”
The man with the Siamese cat beckoned me aside.
“You know him?”
“Lives next door. Used to have a three-legged Alsatian—rescued it too. Lived to 15. Owners abandoned it after the accident.”
“I see,” he said, then strode to reception.
“Call the surgeon. Take the old man and his dog. Bill me, but charge him only what he can pay—and don’t let him know the real cost.”
The vet was summoned. The bill came to roughly £170. Nigel’s £10 was taken; the rest was covered by the man—Edward Harrington. After my dog’s jab, I headed home. Nigel waited outside the operating room.
Time passed, and soon that greyhound began trotting around our neighbourhood, often with Nigel or Margaret. It limped slightly.
“Afternoon, Nigel.”
“Afternoon, love.”
“I see the dog stayed with you.”
“Aye. Found the owners’ son. They didn’t want it back—said it wouldn’t win shows now. No use to them. Ah, well. We’ll manage. The lad bought special food, vitamins. I got a job as a caretaker, £120 a week. We’re alright. Named her Sandy.”
A couple of months later, I was back at the same clinic—my old terrier, Jack, had fallen ill. As we waited, who should walk in but Nigel, cradling a kitten. The poor thing was a mess—covered in cuts and tar. Nigel looked anxious, counting out coins. Not enough, clearly.
“Teenagers did this. Little monsters, cut it up, dipped it—disgusting.”
“All we need now is Edward Harrington,” I thought.
The door swung open. In strode Edward, his Burmese, Bagheera, in tow. His eyes fixed on Nigel, who was still counting pence. Blood and tar dripped from the kitten.
“Karma strikes again!” Edward exclaimed, marching to reception.
“Take the old man and his cat. Put it on my tab.”
The kitten went into surgery, Jack for his check-up, and Edward paid without fuss before leaving. Nigel kept the cat, naming it Tabs.
Spring arrived. I went to buy flea treatment for our pets and spotted Edward. We exchanged greetings.
“Missing Nigel and his strays?” he joked.
“He’ll be along,” I smiled.
Just then, the door opened. In came Nigel, something bundled in his coat, followed by Margaret.
“What now?” I asked.
“Margaret here snatched this bird from some street cats. Bit ragged, but a fine bird,” Nigel said, pulling out a sodden, bedraggled parrot from under his coat.
I sank onto a chair. Edward rummaged in his wallet.
“That’s someone’s pet,” I said. “Probably has a name. Maybe… Charlie?”
The parrot lifted its scruffy head, eyed me, and squawked: *”Karma! Karma!”*
Edward sighed, pocketed his wallet, and headed for reception. Nigel scratched his head and grinned.
“Suppose if I find any more critters, I’ll bring ’em here. Good rates.”
Edward left his card at the clinic. “If Nigel Thompson turns up with any animal, call me. I’ll cover it.”
Can’t escape it—karma always comes around.
