On a weekend, I took my dog to the vet for its jab. I joined the queue. A scruffy yet tidy old man caught my eye—he seemed familiar. I looked closer—it was my neighbour, Nigel Whitcombe. The old chap was fussing, calling for the vet. I stepped closer.
*”What’s happened?”*
*”A car hit this dog—picked ’im right off the road. Needs a surgeon sharpish.”*
*”Dad, have you got the money for it?”*
*”Dunno, love.”*
Whitcombe turned out his pockets. Scraped together about £20. His face lit up.
*”Should cover it. Had a bit o’ luck unloading some odds and ends.”*
The dog, a greyhound by the look of it, whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Broken legs, at least £200, easy. A well-dressed bloke cradling an obscenely expensive Siamese cat glanced our way.
*”Couldn’t just leave the poor bugger, could I?”* Whitcombe muttered. *”Screamin’ its lungs out in the road. Folk just kept drivin’ past. Livin’ creature dyin’ right there. I’ll ring the missus, Maud—she’s got another fiver stashed. Just in case.”*
The man with the Siamese pulled me aside.
*”You know him?”*
*”Lives next door. Had a three-legged collie once. Lived to fifteen, then passed. Same story—found it hit by a car, owners washed their hands of it.”*
*”Right.”* The man nodded, then walked to reception.
*”Call the surgeon. Take the old boy and his dog. Draw up the bill—I’ll pay. Take his money too, but don’t mention the cost.”*
The surgeon came. The bill? Near £350. £20 from Whitcombe, the rest from the man with the Siamese—Geoffrey Arlington.
I got my dog vaccinated and left. Whitcombe waited by the operating room. Before long, that greyhound took to trotting about the neighbourhood—sometimes with him, sometimes with Maud. Had a bit of a limp.
*”Afternoon, Nigel Whitcombe.”*
*”Afternoon, love.”*
*”Kept the dog, then?”*
*”Aye. Lad tracked down the owners. They said it wouldn’t win shows now, so they didn’t want it. No matter—we’ll manage. Lad bought special feed, vitamins an’ all. Found a bit o’ work too—night porter. Pays £250. S’alright. Called ’er Ruby.”*
Months later, I was back at that same clinic—my old cat, Percy, had taken poorly. We queued up, waiting. Then in walks Whitcombe, cradling a kitten. Horrible sight—sliced up, tar smeared. He fumbled through his pockets, counting coppers. His face fell.
*”Snatched it off some lads. Little demons cut it, boiled it in tar. Proper nasty, that.”*
*”All we need now is Geoffrey Arlington,”* I thought.
The door swung open. In he came—Geoffrey Arlington, with his Birman, Wellington. His eyes locked onto Whitcombe, still counting pennies. The kitten dripped blood and tar.
*”Bloody karma,”* Geoffrey muttered, marching to reception.
*”Take the old man and his cat. I’ll pay.”*
The kitten went into surgery, Percy for a check-up, and Geoffrey settled the bill, bought what was needed, then left. Whitcombe kept the cat. Named it Bertie.
Spring came. I popped into the pet shop for tick treatment. Who do I see? Geoffrey Arlington. We exchanged pleasantries.
*”Whitcombe’s late to the party,”* he chuckled.
*”He’ll turn up,”* I grinned.
The door creaked. In came Whitcombe, something bundled in his jacket. Maud trailed behind.
*”What now?”* I asked.
*”Maud here wrangled this bird off some stray cats. Gave ’im a right thrashing. Lovely bird, though.”* He unzipped his sodden jacket—out flopped a bedraggled macaw.
I sank onto a stool. Geoffrey rummaged in his briefcase.
*”That’s somebody’s pet,”* I said. *”Bet it’s got a name. Probably something posh—Clarence, maybe.”*
The macaw lifted its frazzled head, fixed me with a beady eye, and squawked: *”Karma! Karma!”*
*”Karma,”* Geoffrey sighed, pulling out his wallet and heading for the till.
Whitcombe scratched his head, grinning. *”Reckon if I find any more critters, I’ll bring ’em ’ere. Dead cheap.”*
Geoffrey decided not to change vets. Left his card behind.
*”If an old bloke—Nigel Whitcombe—turns up with any critter, ring me. I’ll cover it.”*
Can’t escape it—karma.
