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  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