On my day off, I took my dog to the vet for a vaccination. As I waited in line, I noticed an elderly man—a bit scruffy but tidy—who seemed familiar. Upon a closer look, I recognized him as my neighbor, Nigel Thompson. The old man was fussing, calling for the vet. I approached him.
“What’s wrong?”
“A dog got hit by a car. I picked it up right from the road. It needs a surgeon—urgently.”
“Nigel, do you have enough money?”
“I don’t know, love.”
Nigel began emptying his pockets, scraping together about £10. He brightened up.
“Should be enough. I’d just sold a few things, had a bit of luck.”
The dog, a greyhound by the look of it, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. With those broken legs, treatment would cost at least £100. A well-dressed man holding an extravagant Savannah cat glanced our way.
“Love, I couldn’t just leave the poor thing,” Nigel murmured. “It was crying on the road. Everyone just drove past, rushing somewhere. And here’s a living soul in pain. I’ll call my wife, Marge—she’s got another £3 put by. She’ll bring it, just in case.”
The man with the Savannah pulled me aside.
“You know him?”
“He lives next door. He used to have a three-legged dog—a collie. Lived to fifteen. They say he found it injured too, abandoned by its owners.”
“Right,” the man said, then walked to reception.
“Call the surgeon and take the old man with his dog. Send me the bill—I’ll pay. Take his money, but don’t tell him how much it costs.”
The vet was called. The bill came to £170—Nigel’s £10 and the rest covered by the man with the Savannah, Edward Wilkes. After my dog’s jab, I headed home. Nigel waited outside the operating room.
Time passed, and soon the greyhound was seen limping around the neighborhood, either with Nigel or his wife, Marge.
“Afternoon, Nigel,” I greeted him one day.
“Afternoon, love.”
“I see the dog stayed with you.”
“Aye, the owners’ son turned up. Said it wouldn’t win shows now, so it was no use to them. Ah well, we’ll manage. He bought special food and vitamins for it. I found work too—night porter at the flats. Pays £120. We’ll be alright. Named her Lady.”
Months later, my old cat, Oliver, fell ill. Back at the vet, I spotted Nigel again, cradling a kitten—matted in tar and bleeding. He counted out his coins, shoulders drooping.
“Took it off some lads. Little devils tortured it—cut it, poured tar on it. Disgusting.”
“All we need now is Edward and his Savannah,” I thought.
Then the door swung open. In strode Edward Wilkes, his Bengal cat Bagheera in tow. His eyes locked onto Nigel, still fretting over his meagre coins. Blood and tar dripped from the kitten.
“Karma, truly!” Edward exclaimed, marching to reception.
“Take the old man and his cat. I’ll pay.”
The kitten went into surgery; Oliver got checked over. Edward covered the bill, bought supplies, and left. Nigel kept the kitten, naming him Toby.
Spring came. I went to grab flea treatment for our pets and spotted Edward. We exchanged greetings.
“Missing Nigel and his strays?” he chuckled.
“He’ll be along soon,” I smiled.
The door opened. In walked Nigel, something bundled in his jacket. Marge followed.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Marge here rescued a bird from some street cats. Gave it a mauling, but it’s a good bird,” Nigel said, revealing a bedraggled macaw beneath his damp coat.
I sank into a chair. Edward rummaged through his wallet.
“It’s someone’s pet,” I said. “Probably has a name. Maybe Charlie?”
The macaw lifted its scruffy head, looked at me, and squawked, *“Karma! Karma!”*
“Karma,” Edward sighed, pulling out his wallet and heading to reception. Nigel scratched his head, grinning.
“Well, if I find any more critters, I know where to bring ’em. Prices are fair here.”
Edward decided not to change clinics. Instead, he left his card. *“If Nigel Thompson comes in with any animal, call me. I’ll cover it.”*
Some things you just can’t escape—karma.
(Adapted from the original by Elena Andriyash)
