I know I have written recently about George's problem with his eyesight. It has been going on for a while now. His favorite occupation is chasing his tennis ball, and we started noticing a while ago that he was having difficulty locating it. If it was thrown even a little bit beyond his immediate vicinity, he would stop in mid-charge and turn around and look at us, bewildered. It got to be so bad that he could only chase the ball if we threw it directly over his nose as he was running away, so that he could track it--whether by smell or movement, I don't know. And he started bumping into things. Well, not exactly bumping, but coming so close that he'd see an obstacle only when it was right in front of his nose, and startle away in alarm.
So we took him to the dog doctor, who gave us a hefty bill and the advice to visit a dog eye doctor. Which we did yesterday. After examination by an army of technicians and doggie ophthalmologists, we were delivered the verdict. George has cataracts in both eyes, and needs surgery if his eyesight is to be saved. Here he is, looking understandably plaintive...
... in a photo taken by Amy Inouye of Future Studio Gallery last week.
I will spare you details of the punch-in-the-stomach cost of eye surgery for a pooch. But to let the poor old boy go slowly blind for the rest of his years does not seem like a conscionable choice. We will simply have to go without dinner for the next sixteen years. He goes in for surgery tomorrow.