Wednesday morning.

Wilf sprints ahead . Pausing only where the lane coming down the hill crosses the lane running along the valley . He's safe. Cars here in deepest France Profonde a rarity . What tractors there are trundle past at dawn and at dusk . The concept of a morning rush hour beyond comprehension . That's not quite true. The receptionist at the old folks home lives in a steep roofed house by the crossroads . She's always late . Racing past the rickety old farmhouse at two minutes past eight on her way to work in the little market town. Three minutes past five coming back home. Regular as clockwork - but late . Her little black Citroen doing 90 in a 30 zone . I used to think her mad. Now I've got used to it. Rush hour France Profonde style.

From a distance it looks as if Wilf is rubbing his back on the soft grass verge. Close up it's clear that he's drifted into a gentle sleep. The sound of snoring, the breeze in the leafless branches, the woodpeckers hard at work on the stump of an old elm. Warm sunshine. He finally picks himself up, shakes the grass off his coat, and trots off. The enervating power of a quick nap. This week his breathing rougher . Doors presenting more of a problem . Some days , most days , lucid. Others confused. The melanomas spreading. Our slowing daily routine . Little, everyday things that will be missed. Details too small for a diary but just right for this dogblog.