On a day off, I took my dog to the veterinary clinic for a vaccination. As I waited in line, a scruffy yet tidy elderly man caught my eye—he seemed familiar. Upon closer look, I recognised him as my neighbour, Thomas Wilkes. The old man fidgeted anxiously, calling for the vet. I approached him.
“What’s happened?”
“A dog was hit by a car—I found it right on the road. It needs a surgeon, quick.”
“But, Thomas, do you have enough money?”
“I don’t know, lass.”
Wilkes emptied his pockets, scraping together about £10. He brightened a little.
“Should be enough. Had a bit of luck unloading some odd jobs lately.”
The dog, a greyhound by the look of it, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Broken legs, no doubt—£100 at the very least. A well-dressed man cradling an absurdly expensive Birman cat glanced over at us.
“Couldn’t just leave the poor thing, could I?” Thomas muttered. “Crying out there in the road, and everyone just drove past. A living soul suffering, and no one stops.” He pulled out an old mobile. “I’ll ring my wife, Margaret. She’s got another £3 tucked away—just in case.”
The man with the Birman beckoned me aside.
“You know him?”
“Lives next door. Had a three-legged dog once—a collie. Lived to fifteen. Same story—found it hit by a car, owners disowned it.”
“Right,” the man said, then walked to the reception.
“Call the surgeon. Take the old man and his dog. Bill me—but only take what he can pay. Don’t tell him the cost.”
The surgeon came. The bill came to £170—£10 from Wilkes, the rest from the man with the Birman, James Whitmore. After my dog’s jab, I headed home. Thomas waited by the operating room. In time, the greyhound began limping about our neighbourhood, always with Thomas or Margaret.
“Afternoon, Thomas.”
“Afternoon, lass.”
“I see you kept the dog.”
“Aye, found the owners’ son. They didn’t want her back—said she’d never win shows now. No matter. We’ll manage. My boy bought special food and vitamins for her.” He grinned. “Got myself a job as a caretaker, too—£120 a week. We’ll be right. Called her Lady.”
A few months later, my old terrier, Jack, took ill. Back at the same clinic, we queued again. Then in came Thomas, cradling a kitten—matted in tar, cuts everywhere. He counted his coins, face falling.
“Took it off some lads,” he fumed. “Little monsters—cut it up, poured tar on it.”
“Just needs the Birman man now,” I thought.
The door swung open—in walked James Whitmore, his cat Bagration in tow. His eyes locked on Thomas, still counting pennies, the kitten’s blood and tar dripping.
“Karma, indeed,” James muttered, then marched to reception.
“Take the old man and his cat. I’ll pay.”
The kitten was rushed into surgery, Jack was seen, and James covered the costs before leaving. Thomas kept the kitten, naming him Tabs.
Come spring, I returned for tick treatments. Who should I see but James?
“Missed Thomas and his strays,” he chuckled.
“He’ll be along,” I smiled.
The door opened. In came Thomas, something bundled in his coat, Margaret beside him.
“What’s happened now?”
“Margaret here snatched this bird from some street cats,” Thomas said, unfurling his coat to reveal a bedraggled parrot—a scarlet macaw.
I sank into a chair. James rummaged in his briefcase.
“That’s someone’s pet,” I said. “Bet it’s got a name. Charlie, maybe?”
The parrot lifted its bedraggled head, fixed me with a beady eye, and squawked:
“Karma! Karma!”
“Karma,” James sighed, pulling out his wallet and heading to reception.
Thomas scratched his head, grinning. “Reckon I’ll keep bringing critters here—good rates.”
James left his card at the clinic. “If Thomas Wilkes turns up with any animal, ring me. I’ll cover it.”
Can’t escape it—karma.
