**Diary Entry**
On my day off, I took the dog to the clinic for a vaccination. While waiting in line, I noticed an elderly man—scruffy but tidy—who looked familiar. I took a closer look and realised it was my neighbour, Nigel Thompson. The old man was fussing, calling for a vet. I approached him.
“What’s happened?”
“Car hit a dog. Found it right there in the road. Needs surgery, quick.”
“Dad, do you have enough money?”
“Dunno, love.”
Nigel emptied his pockets, scraping together about £9. He brightened.
“Should be enough. Did a bit of odd work last week, had some spare.”
The dog—a greyhound by the look of it—whimpered pitifully. I sighed. Judging by its state, broken legs at least—£100 minimum. A well-dressed man holding an absurdly expensive Bengal cat glanced our way.
“Couldn’t just leave the poor thing, could I?” Nigel muttered. “Screaming in the road, it was. Cars just speeding past. A living soul, suffering.” He shook his head. “I’ll ring my missus, Margaret. She’s got another £3 tucked away. She’ll bring it, just in case.”
The man with the cat pulled me aside.
“You know him?”
“Lives next street over. Had a three-legged collie once—lived to fifteen. Said he found it hit by a car too. Owners refused to claim it.”
“Right,” the man said, then walked to reception.
“Call the surgeon and take the old man’s dog. Bill me for the lot—but take his money first. Just don’t tell him the cost.”
The vet was called. The bill came to £170—£9 from Nigel, the rest from the man with the cat, Edward Whitmore. I got my dog’s jab and left. Nigel waited outside the operating room.
Time passed, and the greyhound started appearing around the neighbourhood—limping, either with Nigel or his wife, Margaret.
“Afternoon, Nigel.”
“Afternoon, love.”
“Dog’s still with you, then.”
“Aye. Found the owners, but they said it’s no good for shows now. Don’t want it. Ah well, we’ll manage. My boy bought special food, vitamins. I got a job too—night porter. Pays £120. We’ll be alright. Called her Lady.”
Months later, back at the same clinic with my old cat, Jack. We sat in the queue when Nigel appeared—holding a kitten, mangled and tar-streaked, his face tight with worry. He dug through his pockets, counting coins. Not enough.
“Took it from some lads,” he muttered. “Little monsters cut it up, poured tar on it. Disgusting.”
*All we need now is the bloke with the cat*, I thought.
The door swung open—Edward Whitmore walked in, his Bengal, Bertie, in tow. His eyes locked onto Nigel, fumbling with his meagre coins, the kitten dripping blood and tar.
“Blimey,” Edward exhaled, strode to reception.
“Take the old man’s cat. I’ll pay.”
The kitten went into surgery, Jack got his check-up, and Edward covered Nigel’s bill, buying whatever was needed before leaving. Nigel kept the cat, naming him Charlie.
Spring came. I went for tick treatment for our pets and ran into Edward. We exchanged greetings.
“No Nigel and his strays today?” Edward chuckled.
“He’ll be along,” I smiled.
The door opened. In came Nigel, something bundled in his jacket, Margaret beside him.
“What now?” I asked.
“Marg here snatched this bird off the street cats. Gave him a proper thrashing. Good bird, though,” Nigel said, pulling out a bedraggled macaw from his damp coat.
I sank onto a chair. Edward rummaged through his wallet.
“That’s a pet,” I said. “Probably has a name. Alfred, maybe?”
The macaw lifted its tousled head, looked at me, and croaked: “Karma! Karma!”
Edward sighed, grabbed his wallet, and headed to reception. Nigel scratched his head, grinning.
“Reckon I’ll bring any strays here from now on—cheap as chips.”
Edward left his card at the clinic. “If Nigel Thompson turns up with an animal—call me. I’ll cover it.”
Can’t escape it—karma.
