On my day off, I drove to the vet clinic to get my dog vaccinated. I took my place in the queue. A scruffy yet tidy elderly man caught my eye—he looked familiar. Upon closer inspection, I realised it was my neighbour, Nigel Cooper. The old man was bustling about, calling for the vet. I approached him.
*”What’s happened?”*
*”A car hit this dog—picked it up right from the road. It needs surgery, urgently.”*
*”Do you have enough money?”*
*”Dunno, love.”*
Cooper began emptying his pockets, scraping together about £9. He brightened.
*”Should be enough. Just sold a few bits, had a bit of luck.”*
The dog, a greyhound by the look of it, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Broken legs—at least £100, no question. A well-dressed man holding an absurdly expensive Bengal cat glanced our way.
*”Don’t see how else I could’ve left the poor thing,”* Cooper muttered. *”It was crying on the tarmac. Cars just kept rushing past. A living soul, suffering. I’ll ring my wife, Mabel—she’s got another £3 tucked away. Just in case.”*
The man with the Bengal pulled me aside.
*”You know him?”*
*”Lives next door. Used to have a three-legged collie. Lived to fifteen. He’d found it hit by a car too—owners refused to take it back.”*
*”Right,”* the man nodded, then walked to reception.
*”Call the surgeon. Take the old man and his dog. Bill me—just take his money first. Don’t tell him the cost.”*
The surgeon was called. The bill came to £170. Nigel’s £9, the rest covered by the man—Edward Hastings. After my dog’s jab, I left. Nigel waited outside the operating room.
Eventually, that greyhound began trotting around our neighbourhood—sometimes with Nigel, sometimes with Mabel. Still limping.
*”Good afternoon, Nigel Cooper.”*
*”Afternoon, love.”*
*”Seems the dog stayed with you.”*
*”Aye. Owner’s son turned up. Said she wasn’t show material anymore. Didn’t want her. No matter—we’ll manage. The lad bought her special food, vitamins. I’ve got a job now—night porter. £120 a week. Sorted. Named her Lucky.”*
Two months later, my old terrier, Winston, fell ill. Back to the same clinic. We queued. Then—Nigel appeared, clutching a kitten. Mangled, tar-smeared. He fumbled through his pockets, counting coins. Not enough. His face fell.
*”Snatched it from some lads. Little monsters—cut it up, poured tar. Disgusting.”*
*”All we need now is the Bengal man,”* I thought.
The door swung open. In walked Edward Hastings, his Bagheera in tow. His eyes locked on Nigel, still counting pennies. The kitten dripped blood and tar.
*”Bloody karma,”* Edward sighed, heading straight to reception.
*”Take the old man and the cat. I’ll pay.”*
The kitten went into surgery, Winston for his check-up. Edward covered Nigel’s bill, bought supplies, and left. Nigel kept the kitten—named him Pip.
Come spring, I returned for tick treatment. There was Edward. We exchanged greetings.
*”Missing Cooper and his menagerie?”* he chuckled.
*”He’ll be along,”* I smiled.
The door opened. In shuffled Nigel, something bundled in his coat. Mabel followed.
*”What now?”* I asked.
*”Mabel here snatched this bird from some street cats. Gave it a thrashing. Good bird, though,”* Nigel said, pulling out a bedraggled macaw from under his damp coat.
I sank into a chair. Edward rummaged in his wallet.
*”That’s someone’s pet,”* I said. *”Probably has a name. Something posh, like Clarence.”*
The macaw lifted its frazzled head, stared at me, and squawked: *”Karma! Karma!”*
*”Karma,”* Edward groaned, pulling out his wallet and marching to reception. Nigel scratched his head, grinning. *”Reckon I’ll bring all me strays here now—dead cheap.”*
Edward left his card at the clinic. *”If Nigel Cooper turns up with any creature—call me. I’ll pay.”*
Can’t escape it—karma’s a thing.
Author: Elena Andriyash.
