Mighty forces .

Wilfs daily routine. Conversation with the waitress. Illicit half croissant. Christening of the box hedge around the war memorial. Home for a morning doze. Lunchtime bark at the post lady. A nap in the back of the car while ' the font ' goes shopping . Afternoon walk by the stream . Forty winks on the terrace before dinner . Snuggled up asleep by ten .

He 's getting smaller . The muscle around his shoulders almost gone . This week the bloods returned . Starting to stumble as he walks . We check his eyes and gums. We worry . He thinks this ridiculous. What's the point ? He gets on with enjoying life . The capacity to generate laughter burning as bright as ever . Somehow dogs know better than humans - "Be bold - and mighty forces will come to your aid ".

A happy pigeon .

At last. A sunny day . It takes us an hour but Wilf manages to walk half a mile along the old roman road . Every fifty yards or so he sits down and PONders . Eagles circling overhead, hares watching nervously from the long grass along the river bank, a family of deer silhouetted against the blue sky .Sometimes he sits on the grass verge sniffing the air and resting his arthritic limbs. Sometimes he settles himself down, foursquare, in the middle of the road for a quick nap , mind in neutral. Sometimes he just rolls on his back , squirming and squirming and squirming in delight. Old PON's have learnt to enjoy times like these. They accept that some days you're the pigeon, and other days you're the statue. Today he's a happy pigeon.

Fawlty Towers without the humour.

We've only had one frosty morning this winter . Today it's warm and wet - again . More like March than January. On our way back from the cafe with the croissants we stop off for a leisurely walk along the old roman road. The American woman restoring the house in the valley has installed electric security barriers at her front gate. Our quiet part of the world has never seen the like. Wilf christens both contraptions with studied indifference.

To a local hotel on Sunday afternoon . A rambling fifteenth century castle. It's closed for the season . From the look of it possibly longer. The upper floor covered in a thick mat of damp green moss. We turn to TripAdvisor when we get home. ' Fawlty Towers without the humour ' says the first review . The other reviews less kind. Google Translate a cause of much mirth.

Wilf , exhausted by all the recent activity, curls up by the front door and sleeps . He rouses himself for dinner and a quick pit stop and then dreams on 'til dawn. He's sleeping more and more these days.

What fish fingers are made of .

The rickety old farmhouse alive to the sound of kilts and sporrans being readied for the Hogmanay festivities . Angus's sporran proves particularly difficult to find . Put away last year in one of those places where ' you'll be sure to find it '. This , after much searching , turns out to be the same inaccessible place where the ' lost ' 2010 Christmas lights were hidden .

The restaurant at the Toulouse Rugby Club offers a pre-match menu that is unmistakeably French . Across the channel you'd be lucky to get a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich at a rugby ground . The Fish of the Day - Lieu Jaune. This, ' the font of all knowledge ' informs us is Pollock. It seems that most fishfingers are made of Pollock these days .

The brasserie full of locals, long suffering wives , boisterous children and dogs . The sensible French attitude to family dogs - ' Where we go , they go '. Wilf nestles under the table happy to be at the centre of his flock and hopeful that some Lieu Jaune will come his way . It does. Some plain boiled rice as well.

And so to the end of 2011 and into the excitement of the New Year. To all of you who've followed Wilf on his journey I wish the same thing I wish for family and friends : May this be a year without fear . Or to put it another way - '' May all your troubles last as long as your New Year's resolutions " .

The old proverb .

Wilf spends most of his day sunbathing on the front doorstep . He rouses himself for a quick break of day trip into town for croissants and a hair tousle by the waitress . Later there's a mid-morning saunter to the fire hydrant and a late afternoon stroll along the old roman road . In between times he sleeps . He does however appear , unbidden and cheerful , at lunch and dinner . He also rouses himself to bark when the womens cooperative drop off a dining chair they forgot to return yesterday .

In the evening ' the font ' boils up the turkey carcass to make bouillon for New Years Eve Tortellini in brodo . Wilf sits in the kitchen staring, enraptured, at the stove and the simmering pot . A study in hope . He gets to taste some of the broth . PON's are great exponents of the old proverb - "The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth ".

Such are the happy routines of life with an old friend .

Christmas sunshine .

Out for a long walk in the warm Christmas sunshine . The weather forecast says the maximum temperature will be a chilly seven degrees but come late morning we've discarded our jumpers and are strolling along in shirt sleeves . Wilf sauntering , nose down , through the grass verges by our side. Nothing will hurry him . The old fellow unaware of the timetable imposed by ' the fonts' organizational chart . Finally amid much laughter he's lifted , muddy pawed , into the back of the car and driven home .

Present opening time . At the pop of the champagne cork Wilf bounds up the stairs . Family sheepdog front and centre . Each parcel carefully examined by a large black nose. Wilf lives in hope that one of these packages will contain a string of freshly cooked sausages . This old boy knows how to be happy . Party animal Wilf. For one family in France their very own , small, white , canine Christmas miracle . Unexpected gifts are the best .

A special night.

Early evening . Off in the car to the little market town . While ' the font ' and Wilf go in search of the fishmonger Angus heads off to the relative warmth of the church. It's a special night . Carols for the old folks from the maison de retraite . The music provided by a 'semi-professional ' ensemble from Barcelona.

The first number a rap version of ' Il est ne le divin enfant ' performed by four young gentlemen with shaved heads . A young lady in a cocktail dress then sings Ave Maria . She is accompanied, on the xylophone , by two of the shaven headed youths. They have changed into purple dinner jackets . Angus , unconsciously, finds himself holding on tightly to the side of his chair as the soloist slides haltingly towards the high notes .

After that there was what might well have been the Carol of the Birds. The two purple jacketed young xylophonists joined by a woman with a concertina and a gentleman with a mouth organ. They grin at the audience throughout in a '' you will enjoy yourselves '' type way. The old folks look on bemusedly. As well they might .

Time for Angus to head off to the cafe for an early evening pick me up . '' The font " asks what the singing was like . ' Enthusiastic ' I reply . What the old folks thought of it all is a mystery but Wilf would have thoroughly enjoyed himself. He might even have joined in .

Wilf spends much of his day in a downstairs corridor leading to two guest bedrooms. Does he know something is about to happen ?

A plural concept.

Driving rain and storm force winds. Wilf wanders out for a pit stop and returns looking like the dog who's never been groomed in his life . Sodden and blow dried at one and the same time . While the gale rages around us the old trooper opts for a lengthy doze.

Late afternoon . Four firemen in full uniform arrive at the front door. Wilf wakes from his slumbers and barks at them half heartedly. They've come to sell their Christmas calendar. I give them €25 . Best to keep on the right side of the emergency services . Why they need to come as a team is a mystery of French life .

The firefighters seem to be in no rush to leave so I ask them if they would like a Christmas drink . They most certainly would. An hour and a half later it's evident that ' Christmas drink ' in France is a plural concept. Wilf settles down in front of the fire , the centre of attention. Our governments may be at loggerheads but some , most , aspects of Franco-British relations are thriving.

Wilf demonstrates his Christmas skill .

To every nursery within a fifteen kilometre radius . We're looking for a four or five metre tall tree . Last year they were ten a penny. This year nothing. The largest to be found a spindly specimen less than two metres high. We return home empty handed . I'm frustrated at the lack of progress but Wilf has rather enjoyed himself. His day spent wandering , nose down, deep in canine reverie , past row upon row of Christmas trees . He'll stop occasionally to lift a leg and impart a little festive spirit, PON style , to the proceedings . A satisfied ' aim like that takes real skill ' look etched on his face .

'' The font '' heads off to London while it's still dark to see ' granny font ' . By the time Wilf and yours truly navigate our way back from the airport it's just beginning to get light . We park the car down by the river . Not a soul to be seen . A herd of eight deer emerge from the woodland thirty metres away and look at us quizically. They don't seem particularly alarmed . Wilf stands silently in the middle of the road, four legs rooted to the spot, his good nostril pointed towards them . The excitement of an early morning walk .

Into town for the family fellows illicit half croissant . Outside the greengrocers, in a wooden box, what I take to be a melon. The owner explains that it's not a melon. However, he speaks very quickly and in the strong local 'Oc' accent so I'm no closer to knowing what it is .

Less is more .

The Christmas decorations have gone up in the little market town . Swathes and swathes of fairy lights strung the length of the main street , round the market hall , between balconies and across every facade. Even the two old walnut trees outside the church door have succumbed to the manic municipal decorator - each limb painstakingly swaddled in twinkling lights . Studio 54 meets deepest France Profonde . ' Less is more ' not a concept that has hit Tarn-et-Garonne .

Wilf spends most of his day in the kitchen patiently advising ' the font ' on short crust pastry . In between times he dozes . The recent ' unpleasantness ' completely forgotten . Last night he sleeps uninterruptedly from eleven to six thirty. Much needed rest for dog .. and owners . This morning he is primed and ready to head off to join the beer and absinthe crowd and be rewarded with his illicit half croissant by the laughing waitress.

Wilfs Monday Morning PONder.

In acceptance , there is peace .

An unshakeable philosophy .

The little medieval building on the corner of the market square is being converted into flats . For half a millenium it had been a hostel for pilgrims en route to Campostella . Then it became the town butchers . Then the butchers daughters inherited it and left it empty. Angus briefly thought of turning it into a restaurant . Now the municipality has bought it and is ripping out all the original features . The top floor has already lost its eighteenth century shutters . A row of square , uniform , double glazed windows taking their place . Not all renovations are sensitively done .

For the most part the Christmas Fair was a great success . The exception being the 'atelier lettre au pere Noel '. By eleven am the old farmer had already managed to down half a dozen drinks . By lunchtime he was positively ' flying ' . At twelve thirty part of his grotto roof collapsed much to the alarm of various three year olds and their parents . The last sighting of him was at one fifteen staggering in the general direction of home . He failed to return .

Wilf has his head washed under the shower this morning . Three large lesions have appeared overnight . How can melanomas possibly grow so quickly ? He takes this invasion of his privacy with as much good grace as he can muster . We'll keep an eye on his breathing this week . Definitely a bit rougher. The vet told us to watch out for signs that the cancer might be spreading to the other nostril . Through it all the old fellow continues to enjoy himself. That unshakeable PON philosophy " Life is full of challenges . Being happy shouldn't be one of them " .