' Why don't we get one of these ? '

The reliable, always starts first time, little Volkswagen chose yesterday to show its age. For at least a year 'the font' has been pestering me to replace it . Faced with ever rising restoration bills on the rickety old farmhouse I've kept on putting it off. This morning the dashboard would light up but as for the rest, nothing. Not a peep. A call to the garage. After much pleading an agreement they would send a truck out.

Wilf watched , entranced, from the safety of the terrace as the car was winched onto the back of the lorry. I was just climbing into the cab when I caught the family fellow looking at me. A quick chat with the driver. " Yes, of course, no problem " and so, of we set. Driver, Wilf in the middle of the bench seat and me by the window. Careering along the country lanes, windows down, French ballads playing on the radio. At corners he would nestle into me and I'd tickle him behind the ears. Sometimes he'd look up as if to say ' why don't we get one of these ?'.

At the garage all worked stopped when we arrived. " A Volkswagen " exclaimed the chief mechanic - stating the obvious. " Don't see many of these ". In the land of Renaults, Citroens and Peugeots, automotive esoterica takes mundane forms. While the garagistes set to work , muttering to themselves about the idiocy of buying foreign, Wilf and yours truly explored the car park. Ranks and ranks of neatly parked cars and trucks. Wilfs eyes sparkled. So many tyres, so little time. Thank heavens for perfect aim.

Fewer walks yesterday. More sleep. The intensity still there. This morning down to the cafe for coffee, croissant and bowl of water. Nose and paws peeping out from under the table. 'Bonjour Wilfee' and a tousle from the peroxide waitress. Back home to find that the plumbers van has joined the two others in the driveway. The plumbers brought Jaffa Cakes. News travels fast.

Happy days where joy and duty meet. No, that's wrong. The happiest of days where joy and duty meet.

The only one they didn't tell was Wilf.

The sun shone down from a cloudless sky. A perfect day for playing endless swing biffing, touch rugby and hunt the meerkat in the warmth of the garden. ' The font' is a bit worried that all this running around might cause the tumour on his spleen to rupture again but hey, there's life and then there's quality of life. Spaghetti for lunch. Chicken and potatoes for dinner. Bowl licked clean.

He's supercharged with energy. They'd warned us that he would sleep more and more as the cancer takes hold. Seems the only one they didn't tell was Wilf. Seven walks yesterday. He would come and sit in front of me, eyes bright, signalling it was time to go out. Not just any walks. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. A different route each time. It was as if he was determined to capture and recapture all the scents and memories of his time here. Much standing rock still, nose high in the air, drinking in invisible scents and perfumes. It's as if his senses are heightened and he's listening to a symphony where I only hear the wind in the trees.

This morning down to the local market town for a coffee and a bowl of water with the beer and absinthe crowd. A cheerful ' Bonjour Wilfee' and a tousle of his fringe as the waitress set down the water bowl. More of the croissant as a treat than he usually gets. To the outer world no difference ; to me the knowledge that this thing is working away inside. That wonderful PON like silkiness of his coat already coarsened.

Back home to find two white vans. The man to repair the gutters and the man to put the 'chapeau' on the chimney. Tyres, wheel arches, and tow bars carefully examined and christened. The workmen told in no uncertain terms who's the boss.

Madame Bay arrives. Ignoring us, she sits on the floor next to Wilf, cupping his head in her hands and stroking his ears. In a glorious display of Gallic unselfconciousness she starts to sing a lullaby. For the first time in the 35 years I've known 'the font' I go upstairs and pour a pre 'sun over the yard arm' shot of Gods equanimity restoring amber nectar. Not a small shot but a good John Wayne sized slug. Celtic men do not do emotion well.

Wilfs twilight gathers gently round.

PS. Thank you so, so much for all your messages. They provide a double cure of comfort and kindness.

Another journey.

So now we know. A tumour on the spleen, polyps on the lung and heart. A sudden chrysanthemum burst of malice that courses through him with every heartbeat. Inoperable. The internal haemorraging and the pain, for now, stopped. I ask how long we have left. " Three months ?" " Three Weeks ?" The kind specialist shrugs . " Three days ?" I mutter incredulously. She nods. 'We'll do everything we can to make him comfortable ' .

Three days !

To bring it home a one week supply of cortisone. 'That should be enough. We won't need to worry about the side effects '.

Before we finally turn in Wilf wanders up and sits in front of me - his paw prescribing an uncoordinated circular motion in the air. A sign since he was a puppy that he wants reassurance. I sit on the floor and tell him that the road ahead is going to be filled with pure, uninterrupted fun. All the rug surfing, touch rugby, swing biffing, meerkat hunting fun he can dream of . Where he wants it. When he wants it. There'll be walks, mud, jaffa cakes, sausages, tyres to christen and squirrels to chase. Above all there will be love.

He looks back at me as if to say ' and no pain ?' " Definitely no pain " I say.

So soon ?

Wilf is the perfect dog. In the nine and a half years he's been part of the family he's never growled or snarled at us once. Until yesterday. 'The font' took him down to the vets for another check-up. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was pain but for the briefest of moments he lost it. Something must be hurting him - a lot.

Strange symptoms. His breathing has become shallow and rapid. When he lies on his side he is racked with coughing. He's finding it more and more difficult to walk without tiring himself out. He skipped lunch but was ravenous at dinner. His bark has changed from a resonating basso profundo into a high pitched puppy yelp.

A new vet. Five attempts to find a vein. Mental note to make sure that we see 'our man' in future. Some signs of liver and pancreatic problems. The tumour specialist in Toulouse has brought forward the examination to today.

Awake in the small hours listening to his laboured breathing. Good Calvinists say there are no dogs in heaven. They're missing the point. The truth is heaven has already come bounding up to us,muddy pawed, wet nosed, tail wagging, in the selfless, trusting, uncomplicated love of this family fellow.

Can this really be happening again so soon ?

What a difference a day makes.

24 hours of uninterrupted sleep and Wilf seems to have rediscovered his interest in food. We take this as a clear sign that he is on the mend. Today will be a day of light fish and rice. We're still planning to take him for a scan at the hospital in Toulouse to put to rest the vets fears about a tumour.

10.10.10

Wilfs not well. He reluctantly joined me for his morning walk but his heart simply wasn't in it. We slowly and plodingly made it as far as the edge of the village green before he turned to go back home. Not even the presence of Jerome, the old farmers black labrador, could cheer him up. Most unusual. A quick check and 'the font' and yours truly were alarmed. The same pale, bloodless palour of the gums and eyelids that his brother displayed.

Within twenty minutes he was on the vets table for a blood test. The most welcome news - ' it's not piroplasmosis '. His stomachs distended, he's clearly in pain, and he's running a high temperature. We rack our brains, unsuccessfully, for any conceivable cause. Last night he was the life and soul of the party hurtling up and down the corridor rug surfing. A series of shots and now home with a course of antibiotics. Wilf is in a deep sleep by the front door . The vets making an appointment with a specialist in Toulouse for the end of the coming week.

Midnight rambles.

The Autan wind is still blowing. Loic the gardener is outside trying to rake the carpet of leaves that cover the lawn into manageable piles. He is failing miserably. The gusts send his handiwork pirouetting lawlessly into the sky. Wilf finds the whole sensless process to be highly entertaining and is rushing around leaping on the half formed leaf piles like a spring lamb.

Inside the rickety old farmhouse one of the radiators has sprung a leak. Well, not so much a leak as a flood. The plumber actually responded to the ever more frantic calls for help and arrived late last night to fix the problem. 'It's a foundry issue ' he announced delphically before leaving. Hopefully 'the foundry issue' will be fixed by November when we need to turn the heating on for the winter.

Late at night and the square in front of the church is suddenly busier than a Walmart car park on Christmas eve. The villagers have all arrived for their annual midnight ramble. Torches, luminescent jackets, bottles of wine and packed suppers. They invite us to come and join them for a night under the stars. Wilf, who is out for his pre-turning in stroll has caught scent of the food and is only too keen to follow along. 'The font' and I take the view that traipsing across the newly ploughed fields for a picnic in the dark is is yet another sign of communal lunacy. Some of the cars are still parked on the square this morning. Whatever could have happened to their owners ?