On a weekend, I took my dog to the veterinary clinic for his inoculation. As I waited in the queue, I noticed a scruffy yet tidy elderly gentleman who seemed familiar. Upon closer inspection, I recognised him—our neighbour, Nigel Oldfield. The old man fidgeted anxiously, calling for the vet. I approached him.
“What’s happened?”
“A car struck a dog—I found him right on the road. He needs a surgeon, quick.”
“Father, do you have enough money?”
“Don’t know, lass.”
Nigel began emptying his pockets, scraping together about fifteen pounds. He brightened.
“Should be enough. Did a bit of odd work recently—had a bit of luck.”
The dog, a greyhound by the look of him, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Judging by his state—likely a broken leg—the bill would run at least two hundred quid. A well-dressed gentleman cradling an outrageously expensive Siamese cat glanced our way.
“Lass, I couldn’t just leave the poor creature,” Nigel sighed. “He was crying out in the road. Everyone just driving past, rushing somewhere. And there he was—a living soul, helpless. I’ll ring my wife, Mabel—she’s got another five pounds tucked away. She’ll bring it, just in case.”
The man with the Siamese beckoned me aside.
“Do you know him?”
“Lives in the next house over. He once had a three-legged dog, lived to fifteen—a collie. Found him injured too, they say, abandoned by his owners.”
“Right,” the man murmured, then strode to the reception.
“Call the surgeon. Take the old man and his dog. Draw up the bill—I’ll cover it. Take his money too, but don’t tell him the cost.”
The surgeon was summoned. The bill came to three hundred and fifty pounds. Nigel handed over his fifteen; the rest was settled by the man—Geoffrey Harrington. After my own dog’s inoculation, I headed home. Nigel waited by the operating room. Time passed, and soon enough, that greyhound began trotting about our street—sometimes with Nigel, sometimes with Mabel, always with a limp.
“Good day, Nigel Oldfield.”
“Good day, lass.”
“I see the dog stayed with you.”
“Aye,” he nodded. “Tracked down the owners. They refused him—said he wasn’t fit for racing anymore. No use to them now. Ah well, we’ll manage. My son bought special food—vitamins and all. I found work too, minding the flats. Twelve quid a week. Makes do. Named him Lucky.”
Months later, I returned to the clinic—my old terrier, Jack, had taken ill. As we waited, who should appear but Nigel, clutching a kitten, dreadfully torn and tar-streaked. He fumbled in his pockets, counting coins. Too few, clearly. He slumped, distraught.
“Snatched this one from some lads. Little devils—cut him up, dunked him in tar. Pure wickedness.”
“Now we only need the man with the cat,” I thought.
The door swung open—in strode Geoffrey Harrington, his regal Siamese, Bagheera, in tow. His gaze locked onto Nigel, who was still counting pennies. Blood and tar dripped from the kitten.
“Karma, indeed,” Geoffrey muttered, marching to reception.
“Take the old man and his cat—I’ll pay,” he said.
The kitten was whisked away, Jack was seen to, and Geoffrey settled the bill, bought what was needed, and left. Nigel kept the kitten, calling him Kit.
Spring came. I stopped by the clinic for flea treatment when I spotted Geoffrey. We exchanged greetings.
“Missing Nigel and his latest stray?” he chuckled.
“He’ll be along,” I smiled.
The door creaked open. In shuffled Nigel, something bundled in his coat. Mabel followed.
“What now?” I asked.
“Mabel here rescued this bird from some alley cats,” Nigel explained, unearthing a bedraggled scarlet macaw from beneath his damp coat.
I sank into a chair. Geoffrey dug into his wallet.
“That’s someone’s pet,” I said. “Must have a name. Something grand, perhaps—Reginald?”
The parrot lifted its scruffy head, fixed me with a beady eye, and croaked: “Karma! Karma!”
“Karma,” Geoffrey sighed, striding to reception. Nigel scratched his head, grinning. “Reckon I’ll bring all my strays here now—affordable, this place.”
Geoffrey left his card at the clinic. “If Nigel Oldfield turns up with any creature—ring me. I’ll cover it.”
No escaping it—karma.
