James Herriot (46 page)

I thought of the object lesson which I thought he had given me, but in fact it was a lesson of another kind and one which I have never forgotten; that there are countless people like Paul who are not what they seem.

T
HE SHOCK OF
P
AUL
Cotterell’s death stayed with me for a long time, and in fact I know I have never quite got over it because even now when the company in the bar of the Drovers’ has changed and I am one of the few old faces left from thirty-five years ago I can still see the jaunty figure on the corner stool and the bushy face peeping from beneath.

It was the kind of experience I didn’t want repeated in my lifetime yet, uncannily, I ran into the same sort of thing almost immediately afterwards.

It couldn’t have been more than a week after Paul’s funeral that Andrew Vine brought his fox terrier to the surgery.

I put the little dog on the table and examined each of his eyes carefully in turn.

“I’m afraid he’s getting worse,” I said.

Without warning the man slumped across the table and buried his face in his hands.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Andrew? What on earth’s the matter?”

At first he did not answer but stayed there, huddled grotesquely by the side of his dog as great sobs shook his body.

When he spoke at last it was into his hands and his voice was hoarse and desperate. “I can’t stand it! If Digger goes blind I’ll kill myself!”

I looked down at the bowed head in horrified disbelief. It couldn’t be happening again. Not so soon after Paul. And yet there were similarities. Andrew was another bachelor in his thirties and the terrier was his constant companion. He lived in lodgings and appeared to have no worries though he was a shy, diffident man with a fragile look about his tall stooping frame and pallid face.

He had first consulted me about Digger several months ago.

“I call him that because he’s dug large holes in the garden ever since his puppy days,” he said with a half smile, looking at me almost apprehensively from large dark eyes.

I laughed. “I hope you haven’t brought him to me to cure that, because I’ve never read anything in the books about it.”

“No, no, it’s about something else—his eyes. And he’s had that trouble since he was a pup, too.”

“Really? Tell me.”

“Well, when I first got him he had sort of mattery eyes, but the breeder said he’d probably just got some irritant in them and it would soon clear up. And in fact it did. But he’s never been quite right. He always seems to have a little discomfort in his eyes.”

“How do you mean?”

“He rubs the side of his face along the carpet and he blinks in bright light.”

“I see.” I pulled the little animal’s face around towards me and looked intently at the eyelids. My mind had been busy as he spoke and I was fairly sure I should find either entropion (inversion of the eyelids) or distichiasis (an extra row of lashes rubbing against the eyeball) but there was no sign of either. The surface of the cornea, too, looked normal, except perhaps that the deeper structures of lens and iris were not as easy to define as usual.

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 long-standing infection in there.”

I handed over a bottle of 2% 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 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 …”