The Right Turn

Tim looked around the vets waiting room, his Labrador flaked out on the floor in front of him. While his dog, Whiskey, was at the veterinary surgery for his check-up and booster, some of the other patients looked to be in for more complicated treatments. There was a Boxer dog with green gunk oozing from his eye, and a parrot in a cage, whose wing was twisted in the most awful angle.

A couple in their twenties came out of the surgery room with their puppy. As their blonde puppy bounced around, the vet showed them to the counter. She tapped away on the computer keyboard, before speaking in a cold, flat, voice.

‘That will be ninety-five pounds.’

The couple looked at each other in confusion, while the vet simply glared at them, dead-eyed. Her demeanour reminded Tim of a grumpy headmistress in a school full of naughty children. There was just no need for the attitude, she wasn’t dealing with stroppy school kids, but poorly pets.

‘You’ve barely looked at Jack. We’ve only brought him in to register.’ The woman said, looking down at her puppy. 

‘I’m afraid those are the registration costs and the administration fees. I also suggest you sign up for our Pet Paws Protection Plan. It is forty pounds a month, and you get a reduction in the cost of some of the boosters. There would, of course, be a fifty-five pounds joining fee. Should I sign you up?’ The vet replied. 

Her tone was that of a dodgy second-hand car salesman trying to flog their latest piece of junk. Tim wondered just when the practice had changed from focusing on treating sick animals, to a money making racket, exploiting the owners of poorly animals.

‘Should I sign you up for the plan?’ the vet pushed.

‘Not a chance.’ The guy said.

The couple paid what they owed, and still reeling, headed for the door. The vet shook her head angrily, and called out for the next patient. A frail looking woman in her eighties came forward, explaining how her cat, Greta, had hurt her paw. The vet showed her into the surgery room. 

Moments later, they reappeared and the vet once more tapped away on her computer. Tim stroked his dog’s ears and watched the scene unfold in front of him.

‘For the consultation and the treatment today, that’s one hundred and thirty eight pounds. Will you be paying cash or card?’ the vet asked.

Tim noticed how there did not seem to be any concern for the pet, not I hope she’s okay, no if you have any more issues, just give us a call. The vet’s surgery had all the warmth of a mortgage application. 

‘I wasn’t expecting it to cost that much to bandage her paw.’ The woman said, panic in her voice. ‘I only have forty pounds. It’s not pension day until the end of the week.’

This was just heart-breaking. Tim hoped the vet would offer the poor woman a reduction.

‘These things can be expensive.’ The vet said.

‘I just don’t have that kind of money. Is there anything you can do?’

‘I could sign you up for our payment plan. It’s a very competitive rate of interest.’

Tim shook his head in disgust. This was just unbelievable. There was no way he could sit there while the woman signed up for a credit scheme. He shook his head, and after telling his dog to stay, went over to the counter. 

‘I’ll get this.’ he said.

‘No, I can’t let you do that.’ the lady said.

‘Honestly, I insist. I’ve got this. It’s been a good week at the garage.’

‘Are you sure?’ 

‘I insist. And it’s good karma, maybe someone will be there for me next time.’ Tim smiled.

She placed a hand on his.

‘Thank you so much.’

The vet simply waved the card payment machine at him, her cold glare unwavering. Tim wondered if she was disgruntled because she had missed out on signing another victim up to the payment plan. The woman picked up her cat basket and thanked him again, a tear in her eye.

‘No worries at all, and I hope your cat gets well soon.’ Tim said.

He knew that was one sentiment this vet definitely didn’t share.

Early the following week, as Tim was closing up the garage, a car pulled in to the forecourt, tuning right off the main road. A woman got out of the car. She rushed over to him, explaining that it was playing up, and that it didn’t feel safe to drive. Tim recognised her straight away. Last time he’d seen her, she had been charging people a fortune to treat their pets. She didn’t recognise him, he could tell. Tim often found that, you recognised people in a certain place, a certain role, but taken out of that context they could be hard to place. His postman always looked at him, like he was wondering where he knew Tim from. Tim said nothing, but knew it was from the football. Tim had sat next to him for a few seasons at Old Trafford. Away from United, in the setting of a Salford street, his postman just couldn’t place him. 

Tim asked her to run the engine, while he listened and studied the vehicle. There was a loud clanging noise and something was burning and smoking. With the bonnet popped and running, he checked and tinkered and had a good look. He nodded, showing her into the small garage office. He wiped his hands on an oily rag.

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to fix it. It’s not going to be cheap, though.’

‘Really?’ she asked.

It was only then that she recognised him. Tim gave her a smile.

‘These things can be expensive.’

By Chris Platt