"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 ju~ IA (~ A~ ~IA~BA;AOC.~ in tho .^.^rno~ There was a
slieht keratitis there ...................Ul~! I] LIl~ ,~""~, ~,~",~ ~
~ o '.,hi,.h h~An,~ hoon `'iciLlo hof.A'r~o B~lt 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 discoloration
had gone probably the silver nitrate had moved it but the underlying
trouble w" ,: unchanged. There was still something sadly wrong.
Something I couldnlt ~: diagnose ~ 'ii.
That was when I started to get really worried. As the weeks passed I
~e bombarded those eyes with every thing in the book; oxide of mercury,
chino sd; ~ 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. s~ The
real nightmare started when I saw the first of the pigment cells
beginnin6 ;~ to invade the cornea. Sinister brown specks gather ing at
the limbus and pushi~ out dark tendrils into the smooth membrane which
was Digger's window on thc : world. I had seen cells like them before.
When they came they usually sta - > And they were opaque. ~ the next
month I fought them with my pathetic remedies, but they c~ .
'. slowly but inexorably, blurring and narrowing Digger's field of
vision noticed them too, and when he brought the little dog into the
surgery, he ~ ~ ~ unclasped his hands anxiously.
i~ ~ ~A - ,S seeing less all the time, Mr Herriot. I can tell. He
still 1 at S~." >~, ~.ows but he used to bark at all sorts of things
he didn't Ill should hl~Q ~, ~'ce - and now he just doesn't spot them.
He's - he's lo~ row of lashes rt~- x '~
~ G. `~. ~ - ~/'
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 tearstained face to
me. His expression was distraught.
j ~"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?"
"No thing, 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 every thing. 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 al ways 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 get ting 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 anybodi can do for him now." I "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 use~
to the same tracks and paths so that he can trot along on familiar
ground wit ho.4 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 . . ." i~l "And that nice big
lawn at the back of your house where he runs. You'll ha~j.
to be on the lookout all the time in case there are things left Iying
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 al ways looks out of the car
whd he's with me . . ." 151 "He'll still look out." i "Even if he
can't see?"
"Yes." I put my hand on his arm.
"You must understand, Andrew, when a.
animal loses his sight he doesn't realise what's happened to him. It's
a terrib' .
thing, I know, but he doesn't suffer the mental agony of a human
being." n He stood up and took a long shuddering breath.
"But I'm having the agony.,~] I've been dread ing this happening for so
long. I haven't been-able to sleep f~ thinking about it. It seems so
cruel and unjust for this to strike a helpless aninu - a little
creature who's never done anybody any harm." He began to wring }ii ~
hands again and pace about the room. ~ 3', "You're just torturing
yourself!" I said sharply.
"That's part of your troubl~ 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 abo~ .
- they can't give him a happy life." ' "Oh but they can. Digger can
be happy for years and years if you really w~ at ~t. It's up to you.
Like a man in a dream he bent and gathered his dog into his arms and
shufll*~ 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 that dog!"
r | ..
After Paul I was on a knife edge of apprehension but this time there
wasn't any tragic news to shatter me. Instead I saw Andrew Vine
frequently, sometima i.
the town with Digger on a lead, occasionally in his car with the little
white h~ framed al ways in the windscreen, and most often in the fields
by the river whe~ he seemed to be carrying out my advice by following
the good open tracks a~^ and again. -~ It was by the river that I
stopped him one day.
"How are things goi~ Andrew ?"
. . - ;~ He looked at me unsmilingly.
"Oh, he's finding his way around not too ba~ I keep my eye on him. I
al ways avoid that field over there there's a lot~ 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 ~ F IHe 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 Dass. The whole thin~ will an
~w~v :`n~l 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 Ithrust 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 meet ing I
had with the two of them about two years later. It was on the flat
table-land above Darrow by 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 dry stone 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 al ways been pretty good at that myself."
"Well yes, I suppose a lot of us are. But I became an expert and see
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
r ~_ _ r~ _ _ _ ~ ~ ~ r l Vet in a Spin case, he's become so clever in
much difference."
"Yes . . . yes." He smiled philosophically.
"Anyway, we must get on our Come on, Digger!" ~ He snapped his fingers
and set o~ along a track which pushed a vivid "req.
finger through the heather, pointing clean and unbroken to the sunny
sky lid 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
Diggat blindness, but in the light of modern developments in eye
surgery I believelE was a condition called keratitis sic ca. This was
simply not recognised in the
early days and anyway, if I had known I could have done little about
it. 1 name means 'dryness of the cornea' and it occurs when the dog is
not produci~ enough tears. At the present time it is treated by
insti
lling artificial tears or
an intricate operation whereby the salivary ducts are transferred to
the eyes.
Ba' even now, despite these things, I have seen that dread pigmentation
taking ov.
in the end.
When I look back on the whole episode my feeling is of thankfulness
sorts of things help people to pull out of a depression. Mostly it is
their farm~ - the knowledge that wife and children are dependent on
them sometimes 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 am convinced he came out of it on the end of Digger's lead.
') .,.,<~.
:, ~ :.gl.
i:~:: Chapter Fourteerz .~: . . ~ Now that I had done my first solo I
was beginning to appreciate the qualiti~ of my instructor. There was
no doubt FO Wood ham was a very good teacher..
There was a war on and no time for niceties. He had to get green young
m~ 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 pract~ in Darrow by. I could see myself now, smiling
indulgently at one of my pup~l~ "You don't see this sort of thing in
country practice, David," I said. He w - :: 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 surgoO.
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 spa day with
me in the rough and tumble of large animal practice in the Yorlcd~i~;
Dales and now there was this lady with the poodle and Emmeline. The
lad~ progress along the passage to the consulting room had been
punctuated b~ series of squeaking noises produced by her squeezing a
small rubber dolL each squeak Lucy advanced a few reluctant steps until
a final pressure lurat.
on to the table. There she stood trembling and loo king soulfully
around here "She won't go anywhere without Emmeline," the lady
explained. ,~ "Emmehne? -~ "The doll." She held up the rubber toy.
"Since this trouble started Lu9.
become devoted to her." Chapter Fourteen' "I see. .~nd what trouble
is that?"
"Well, it's been going on for about two weeks now. She's so listless
and st range' end 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.
eThe lady stroked Lucy's curly poll and the little animal looked up at
her with sorrowful liquid eyes.
"I'm get ting really worried about her. She doesn't want to go walks.
In fact we can't even entice her from the house without Emmeline."
"Eh ?"
"I say she won't take a step outside unless we squeak Emmeline at her,
and then they both go out together. Even then she just trails along
like an old dog l and she's only three after all. You know how lively
she is normally."
I nodded. I did know. This little poodle was a bundle of energy. I
had seen her racing around the fields down by the river, jumping to
enormous heights as she chased a ball. She must be suffering from
something pretty severe, but so far I was baffled.