What to do with Wilf ?

A prompt and turbaned Madame Bay burst through the kitchen doors on the dot of eight . Wilf ' Oh you poor,poor baby ' was immediately cocooned in a mass of chiffon and a cloud of Lily of the Valley . As this wall of human energy wrapped her arms around him he tried to look stoic but anyone who knows him would have recognized a look of pure unadulterated misery on his face.

As we're now at the height of tick season we set off in the car and drove into town. We parked in the local supermarket and took Wilf a long walk through the light industrial zone. What the walk lacked in charm it more than compensated for with wide tarmacadamed roads, concrete pavements, and a lack of areas where any form of threatening insect life might exist, let alone thrive. The neuroses of those who have just lost a close companion to piroplasmosis. Wilf loved it. Forget beautiful views and uninterrupted vistas - give him lamp posts and signage.

We did everything by the book - we let Wilf say goodbye to his brother and kept him close by us through the day - but he is very, very glum. He barks at the workmen and refuses their 'blandishments' - a most uncharacteristic sign from a dog who adores the illicit thrill of a jaffa cake. During the day he sits moping by the gate waiting for it to swing open and the impossible to happen. In the evenings he lies in the hall rushing to the front door whenever a car or tractor passes . All in all he's taking it badly. We've lost a companion but he's lost his little brother and his best friend. Protracted therapy of lamp posts and signage is called for.