I laughed. “He’s eager to go, like most of my patients.” I bent and slapped him playfully on the rump. “My word, doesn’t he look fit!”
“He is fit.” Andrew smiled proudly. “In fact I often think that apart from those eyes he’s a perfect little physical machine. You should see him out in the fields—he can run like a whippet.”
“I’ll bet he can. Keep in touch, will you?” I waved them out of the door and turned to my other work, mercifully unaware that I had just embarked on one of the most frustrating cases of my career.
After that first time I took special notice of Digger and his owner. Andrew, a sensitive likeable man, was a representative for a firm of agricultural chemists and, like myself, spent most of his time driving around the Darrowby district. His dog was always with him and I had been perfunctorily amused by the fact that the little animal was invariably peering intently through the windscreen, his paws either on the dash or balanced on his master’s hand as he operated the gear lever.
But now that I was personally interested I could discern the obvious delight which the little animal derived from taking in every detail of his surroundings. He missed nothing in his daily journeys. The road ahead, the houses and people, trees and fields which flashed by the windows—these made up his world.
I met him one day when I was exercising Sam up on the high moors which crown the windy summits of the fells. But this was May, the air was soft and a week’s hot sunshine had dried the green paths which wandered among the heather. I saw Digger flashing like a white streak over the velvet turf and when he spotted Sam he darted up to him, set himself teasingly for a moment then shot back to Andrew who was standing in a natural circular glade among the harsh brown growth.
Here gorse bushes blazed in full yellow glory and the little dog hurtled round and round the arena, exulting in his health and speed.
“That’s what I’d call sheer joy of living,” I said.
Andrew smiled shyly. “Yes, isn’t he beautiful,” he murmured.
“How are the eyes?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Sometimes good, sometimes not so good. Much the same as before. But I must say he seems easier whenever I put the drops in.”
“But he still has days when he looks unhappy?”
“Yes … I have to say yes. Some days they bother him a lot.”
Again the frustration welled in me. “Let’s walk back to the car,” I said. “I might as well have a look at him.” I lifted Digger on to the bonnet and examined him again. There wasn’t a single abnormality in the eyelids—
I had wondered if I had missed something last time—but as the bright sunshine slanted across the eyeballs I could just discern the faintest cloudiness in the cornea. There was a slight keratitis there which hadn’t been visible before. But why … why?
“He’d better have some stronger lotion.” I rummaged in the car boot. “I’ve got some here. We’ll try silver nitrate this time.”
Andrew brought him in about a week later. The corneal discolouration had gone—probably the silver nitrate had moved it—but the underlying trouble was unchanged. There was still something sadly wrong. Something I couldn’t diagnose.
That was when I started to get really worried. As the weeks passed I bombarded those eyes with everything in the book; oxide of mercury, chinosol, zinc sulphide, ichthyol and a host of other things which are now buried in history.
I had none of the modern sophisticated antibiotic and steroid applications but it would have made no difference if I had. I know that now.
The real nightmare started when I saw the first of the pigment cells beginning to invade the cornea. Sinister brown specks gathering at the limbus and pushing out dark tendrils into the smooth membrane which was Digger’s window on the world. I had seen cells like them before. When they came they usually stayed. And they were opaque.
Over the next month I fought them with my pathetic remedies, but they crept inwards, slowly but inexorably, blurring and narrowing Digger’s field of vision. Andrew noticed them too, and when he brought the little dog into the surgery he clasped and unclasped his hands anxiously.
“You know, he’s seeing less all the time, Mr. Herriot. I can tell. He still looks out of the car windows but he used to bark at all sorts of things he didn’t like—other dogs for instance—and now he just doesn’t spot them. He’s—he’s losing his sight.”
I felt like screaming or kicking the table, but since that wouldn’t have helped I just looked at him.
“It’s that brown stuff, isn’t it?” he said. “What is it?”
It’s called pigmentary keratitis, Andrew. It sometimes happens when the cornea—the front of the eyeball—has been inflamed over a long period, and it is very difficult to treat. I’ll do the best I can.”
My best wasn’t enough. That slow, creeping tide was pitiless, and as the pigment cells were laid down thicker and thicker the resulting layer was almost black, lowering a dingy curtain between Digger and all the things he had gazed at so eagerly.
And all the time I suffered a long gnawing worry, a helpless wretchedness as I contemplated the inevitable.
It was when I examined the eyes five months after I had first seen them that Andrew broke down. There was hardly anything to be seen of the original corneal structure now; just a brown-black opacity which left only minute chinks for moments of sight. Blindness was not far away.
I patted the man’s shoulder again. “Come on, Andrew. Come over here and sit down.” I pulled over the single wooden chair in the consulting room.
He staggered across the floor and almost collapsed on the seat. He sat there, head in hands, for some time then raised a tear-stained face to me. His expression was distraught.
“I can’t bear the thought of it,” he gasped. “A friendly little thing like Digger—he loves everybody. What has he ever done to deserve this?”
“Nothing, Andrew. It’s just one of the sad things which happen. I’m terribly sorry.”
He rolled his head from side to side. “Oh God, but it’s worse for him. You’ve seen him in the car—he’s so interested in everything. Life wouldn’t be worth living for him if he lost his sight. And I don’t want to live any more either!”
“You mustn’t talk like that Andrew,” I said. “That’s going too far.” I hesitated. “Please don’t be offended, but you ought to see your doctor.”
“Oh I’m always at the doctor,” he replied dully. “I’m full of pills right now. He tells me I have a depression.”
The word was like a mournful knell. Coming so soon after Paul it sent a wave of panic through me.
“How long have you been like this?”
“Oh, weeks. I seem to be getting worse.”
“Have you ever had it before?”
“No, never.” He wrung his hands and looked at the floor. “The doctor says that if I keep on taking the pills I’ll get over it, but I’m reaching the end of my tether now.”
“But the doctor is right, Andrew. You’ve got to stick it and you’ll be as good as new.”
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered. “Every day lasts a year. I never enjoy anything. And every morning when I wake up I dread having to face the world again.”
I didn’t know what to say or how to help. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No … no thanks.”
He turned his deathly pale face up to me again and the dark eyes held a terrible blankness. “What’s the use of going on? I know I’m going to be miserable for the rest of my life.”
I am no psychiatrist but I knew better than to tell somebody in Andrew’s condition to snap out of it. And I had a flash of intuition.
“All right,” I said. “Be miserable for the rest of your life, but while you’re about it you’ve got to look after this dog.”
“Look after him? What can I do? He’s going blind. There’s nothing anybody can do for him now.”
“You’re wrong, Andrew. This is where you start doing things for him. He’s going to be
lost without your help.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you know all those walks you take him—you’ve got to get him used to the same tracks and paths so that he can trot along on familiar ground without fear. Keep him clear of holes and ditches.”
He screwed up his face. “Yes, but he won’t enjoy the walks any more.”
“He will,” I said. “You’ll be surprised.”
“Oh, but …”
“And that nice big lawn at the back of your house where he runs. You’ll have to be on the lookout all the time in case there are things left lying around on the grass that he might bump into. And the eye drops—you say they make him more comfortable. Who’s going to put them in if you don’t?”
“But Mr. Herriot … you’ve seen how he always looks out of the car when he’s with me …”
“He’ll still look out”
“Even if he can’t see?”
“Yes.” I put my hand on his arm. “You must understand, Andrew, when an animal loses his sight he doesn’t realise what’s happened to him. It’s a terrible thing, I know, but he doesn’t suffer the mental agony of a human being.”
He stood up and took a long shuddering breath. “But I’m having the agony. I’ve been dreading this happening for so long. I haven’t been able to sleep for thinking about it. It seems so cruel and unjust for this to strike a helpless animal—a little creature who’s never done anybody any harm.” He began to wring his hands again and pace about the room.
“You’re just torturing yourself!” I said sharply. “That’s part of your trouble. You’re using Digger to punish yourself instead of doing something useful.”
“Oh but what can I do that will really help? All those things you talked about—they can’t give him a happy life.”
“Oh but they can. Digger can be happy for years and years if you really work at it. It’s up to you.”
Like a man in a dream he bent and gathered his dog into his arms and shuffled along the passage to the front door. As he went down the steps into the street I called out to him.
“Keep in touch with your doctor, Andrew. Take your pills regularly—and remember.” I raised my voice to a shout “Remember you’ve got a job to do with that dog!”
After Paul I was on a knife edge of apprehension but this time there was no tragic news to shatter me. Instead I saw Andrew Vine frequently, sometimes in the town with Digger on a lead, occasionally in his car with the little white head framed always in the windscreen, and most often in the fields by the river where he seemed to be carrying out my advice by following the good open tracks again and again.
It was by the river that I stopped him one day. “How are things going, Andrew?”
He looked at me unsmilingly. “Oh, he’s finding his way around not too badly. I keep my eye on him. I always avoid that field over there—there’s a lot of boggy places in it.”
“Good, that’s the idea. And how are you yourself?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, of course.”
He tried to smile. “Well this is one of my good days. I’m just tense and dreadfully unhappy. On my bad days I’m terror-stricken, despairing, utterly desolate.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew.”
He shrugged. “Don’t think I’m wallowing in self pity. You asked me. Anyway, I have a system. Every morning I look at myself in the mirror and I say, ‘Okay, Vine, here’s another bloody awful day coming up, but you’re going to do your job and you’re going to look after your dog.’“
“That’s good, Andrew. And it will all pass. The whole thing will go away and you’ll be all right one day.”
“That’s what the doctor says.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “But in the meantime …” He looked down at his dog. “Come on, Digger.”
He turned and strode away abruptly with the little dog trotting after him, and there was something in the set of the man’s shoulders and the forward thrust of his head which gave me hope. He was a picture of fierce determination.
My hopes were fulfilled. Both Andrew and Digger won through. I knew that within months, but the final picture in my mind is of a meeting I had with the two of them about two years later. It was on the flat table-land above Darrowby where I had first seen Digger hurtling joyously among the gorse bushes.
He wasn’t doing so badly now, running freely over the smooth green turf, sniffing among the herbage, cocking a leg now and then with deep contentment against the drystone wall which ran along the hillside.
Andrew laughed when he saw me. He had put on weight and looked a different person. “Digger knows every inch of this walk,” he said. “I think it’s just about his favourite spot—you can see how he’s enjoying himself.”
I nodded. “He certainly looks a happy little dog.”
“Yes, he’s happy all right. He has a good life and honestly I often forget that he can’t see.” He paused. “You were right, that day in your surgery. You said this would happen.”
“Well that’s great, Andrew,” I said. “And you’re happy, too, aren’t you?”
“I am, Mr. Herriot. Thank God, I am.” A shadow crossed his face. “When I think how it was then, I can’t believe my luck. It was like being in a dark valley, and bit by bit I’ve climbed out into the sunshine.”
“I can see that. You’re as good as new, now.”
He smiled. “I’m better than that—better than I was before. That terrible experience did me good. Remember you said I was torturing myself? I realised I had spent all my days doing that. I used to take every little mishap of life and beat myself over the head with it.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Andrew,” I said ruefully. “I’ve always been pretty good at that myself.”
“Well yes, I suppose a lot of us are. But I became an expert and look where it got me. It helped so much to have Digger to look after.” His face lit up and he pointed over the grass. “Just look at that!”
The little dog had been inspecting an ancient fence, a few rotting planks which were probably part of an old sheep fold, and as we watched he leaped effortlessly between the spars to the other side.
“Marvellous!” I said delightedly. “You’d think there was nothing wrong with him.”
Andrew turned to me. “Mr. Herriot, when I see a thing like that it makes me wonder. Can a blind dog do such a thing. Do you think … do you think there’s a chance he can see just a little?”
I hesitated. “Maybe he can see a bit through that pigment but it can’t be much—a flicker of light and shade, perhaps. I really don’t know. But in any case, he’s become so clever in his familiar surroundings that it doesn’t make much difference.”
“Yes … yes.” He smiled philosophically. “Anyway, we must get on our way. Come on, Digger!”
He snapped his fingers and set off along a track which pushed a vivid green finger through the heather, pointing clean and unbroken to the sunny skyline. His dog bounded ahead of him, not just at a trot but at a gallop.
I have made no secret of the fact that I never really knew the cause of Digger’s blindness, but in the light of modern developments in eye surgery I believe it was a condition called keratitis sicca. This was simply not recognised in those early days and anyway, if I had known I could have done little about it. The name means “dryness of the cornea” and it occurs when the dog is not producing enough tears. At the present time it is treated by instilling artificial tears or by an intricate operation whereby the salivary ducts are transferred to the eyes. But even now, despite these things, I have seen that dread pigmentation taking over in the end.
When I look back on the whole episode my feeling is of thankfulness. All sorts of things help people to pull out of a depression. Mostly it is their family—the knowledge that wife and children are dependent on them—sometimes it is a cause to work for, but in Andrew Vine’s case it was a dog.
I often think of the dark valley which closed around him at that time and I am convinced he came out of it on th
e end of Digger’s lead.
CHAPTER 39
NOW THAT I HAD done my first solo I was beginning to appreciate the qualities of my instructor. There was no doubt F. O. Woodham was a very good teacher.
There was a war on and no time for niceties. He had to get green young men into the air on their own without delay and he had done it with me.
I used to fancy myself as a teacher, too, with the boys who came to see practice in Darrowby. I could see myself now, smiling indulgently at one of my pupils.
“You don’t see this sort of thing in country practice, David,” I said. He was one of the young people who occasionally came with me on my rounds. Fifteen years old, and like all the others he thought he wanted to be a veterinary surgeon. But at the moment he looked a little bewildered.
I really couldn’t blame him. It was his first visit and he had expected to spend a day with me in the rough and tumble of large animal practice in the Yorkshire Dales and now there was this lady with the poodle and Emmeline. The lady’s progress along the passage to the consulting room had been punctuated by a series of squeaking noises produced by her squeezing a small rubber doll. At each squeak Lucy advanced a few reluctant steps until a final pressure lured her on to the table. There she stood trembling and looking soulfully around her.
“She won’t go anywhere without Emmeline,” the lady explained.
“Emmeline?”
“The doll.” She held up the rubber toy. “Since this trouble started Lucy has become devoted to her.”
“I see. And what trouble is that?”
“Well, it’s been going on for about two weeks now.
She’s so listless and strange, and she hardly eats anything.”
I reached behind me to the trolley for the thermometer. “Right, we’ll have a look at her. There’s something wrong when a dog won’t eat.”
The temperature was normal. I went over her chest thoroughly with my stethoscope without finding any unusual sounds. The heart thudded steadily in my ears. Careful palpation of the abdomen revealed nothing out of the way.
The lady stroked Lucy’s curly poll and the little animal looked up at her with sorrowful liquid eyes. “I’m getting really worried about her. She doesn’t want to go for walks. In fact we can’t even entice her from the house without Emmeline.”