Sculling herons.

' Croissants ! ' . Usually , the word gets Wilf off his back and onto his feet . Not this morning . He's had a rough , four pit stop , night . The fringe over his eyes moves , a sure sign he's heard , but all he wants to do is lie , warm and untroubled , in the early morning courtyard sunshine .

When I get back from the bakers he pulls himself upright , stump of a tail waving first this way then that. 17 kilos of uncoordinated joy . Enthusiasm drowning out the aches and pains . A sliver of pastry as a treat . We turn out onto the lane , past the fire hydrant , which is dutifully christened , then branch off along the old roman road. At the pond two herons look at us, unsure , disapproving , before taking flight. Grey wings pushing the heavy air like oars sculling the water .

I sit on an old tree stump. Wilf on his side dozing at my feet . My French morning paper , a treasure chest of arcana , tells me that Tim Pawlenty's favourite biblical verse is '' you are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes ". True ? Or a wry Gallic sub-editors comment on his chances of becoming President ?

More blood this morning . Wilf seems untroubled . Asleep he looks as radiant as a king . One should be grateful for quiet times like these . Gratitude , as the owners of old dogs know , is the memory of the heart .