James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  I moved over to a cupboard for the ophthalmoscope. ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘So he’s had this for about ten months?’

  ‘Yes, about that. But it varies a lot. Most of the time he seems normal, then there are days when he goes and lies in his basket with his eyes half-closed and you can tell there’s something wrong. Not pain, really. More like discomfort, as I said.’

  I nodded and hoped I was looking wise but none of this added up to anything familiar. I switched on the little light on the ophthalmoscope and peered into the depths of that most magical and delicate of all organs, down through the lens to the brilliant tapestry of the retina with its optic papilla and branching blood vessels. I couldn’t find a thing wrong.

  ‘Does he still dig holes?’ I asked. When baffled I often snatch at straws and I wondered if the dog was suffering from a soil irritation.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘No, very seldom now, and anyway, his bad days are never associated with his digging.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I rubbed my chin. The man was obviously ahead of me with his thinking and I had an uncomfortable feeling of bewilderment. People were always bringing their dogs in with ‘bad eyes’ and there was invariably something to be seen, some cause to be found. ‘And would you say that this was one of his bad days?’

  ‘Well I thought so this morning, but he seems a bit better now. Still, he’s a bit blinky, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes . . . maybe so.’ Digger did appear to be reluctant to open his eyes fully to the sunshine streaming through the surgery window. And occasionally he kept them closed for a second or two as though he wasn’t very happy. But damn it, nothing gave me the slightest clue.

  I didn’t tell the owner that I hadn’t the faintest idea what was wrong with his dog. Such remarks do not inspire confidence. Instead, I took refuge in businesslike activity.

  ‘I’m going to give you some lotion,’ I said briskly. ‘Put a few drops into his eyes three times daily. And let me know how he goes on. It’s possible he has some long­standing infection in there.’

  I handed over a bottle of 2 per cent boric acid solution and patted Digger’s head. ‘I hope that will clear things up for you, lad,’ I said, and the stumpy tail wagged in reply. He was a sharp looking little animal, attractive and good-natured and a fine specimen of the smooth-haired breed with his long head and neck, pointed nose and beautifully straight limbs.

  He jumped from the table and leaped excitedly around his master’s legs.

  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 and traumatic 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 discoloration 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. �