Later that night he sat in the kitchen, joy etched on his face, listening attentively, as the font told him that Saturdays dinner will be Roti de Macreuse braisee aux jeunes carottes. The three lady professors from Ohio will be joining us. Wilf is hoping they will be messy eaters.
Out in the afternoon sunshine for a walk through the walnut groves. The Autan wind had reappeared and was blowing down from the Hautes Pyrenees in sixty mile an hour fury. Perfect PON weather that tousled Wilfs fur and caused his ears to trail in a streamlined path behind him. He's getting tired more easily now. Much more easily. A definite change. At the top of the hill he stopped, sat, and turned his nose into the wind. For ten minutes he was lost in a mystery of wind bourne promise. Only a few brief weeks ago I would have hurried him along but now the rhythm and structure of the day rightly belongs to him. On this final part of the journey time becomes a privilege too precious to be squandered in pointless hurrying.