Saturday, April 7, 2012
The magic word.
Height of the calving season . The #2 vet pops in on her way back from visiting a local farmer . Wilf taken off his stroke medication . He's now down to just two daily insulin injections plus a Cortisone tablet three times a week . The lowest dosage in nearly eighteen months . For the time being everything on hold. The nice young vet gets a restorative glass of champagne.
The smell of roast beef drifts up from the downstairs kitchen . Outside a humdinger of a mountain storm rages . The horizon an arc of lightning flashes . Wilf completely ignores the banging shutters and howling wind . He's got dinner on his mind . Tiny slivers of beef and some potato with his kibbles . Satisfied there's no more food coming his way he settles down at the foot of the stairs and falls into a deep sleep. He's in the very same spot this morning . The magic word ' croissant ' and he's on his feet . Time for our morning trip into the little market town .The power of routine . He gives the waitress his very best " I'm an orphan dog that's never been fed " look . In return an illicit half croissant . A PON won't be rushed .