Idiots !

Wilf sat in the hallway and watched in delight as Madame Bay had a rip roaring set too with the builders. Sleeves were rolled up, words were had and stormy glances cast. The workmen had hung plastic dust sheets to protect the library from the debris thrown up by the work on the adjacent wine cellar. The dust sheets were not 100% efficient and our saintly septaguenarian was not happy to find a layer of powdered concrete coating everything. " You idiots may think it's funny but I'm the one who has to clear it up ". With that she picked up a book , took a deep breath, and in a triumph of gallic theatricality blew the offending material in the direction of the gathered workmen. A triumphant ' what dolts ! ' and our chiffoned cleaning lady turned, amid a cloud of settling white dust, and stormed upstairs - all the while muttering the sort of approbations that would make even a seasoned foreign legionnaire blush.

In the afternoon 'the font' went off to find petrol for the cars. Until recently we've had no trouble finding diesel for the SUV or 'regular' for the little Volkswagen but the blockades of the refineries now seem to be having an impact. Our local garage has cut its opening hours and the 24/7 supermarket is only open from 9.00 am to 6.00 pm.

Wilf continues to surprise and delight. His Cortisone fuelled appetite is voracious and his enthusiasm for life boundless. These days might be tinged with foreknowledge but that doesn't stop them being a laughter woven tapestry of walks, exploration, swing biffing, mischief and fun. Madame Bay of course adds a powerful stimulus to the overall experience. Wonderful autumn days. The best part ? Wilfs delight at being allowed a small taste of the almond and pear tart at dinner last night. Off to bed, tongue licking his muzzle, to dream of life as the patiserrie dog.

Unrecorded treasures.

In the small hours I find him pacing round and round and round the circular table in the dressing room. As soon as he sees me he trots over for a tickle and a chat and is soon sound and contentedly asleep in his bed. Confusion or a side effect of the Cortisone ?

One of those timelessly quiet days that wouldn't usually deserve a footnote in a diary. Sleeping longer than usual and wanting to walk and play less. Quickly and uncharacteristically ignoring the hoardes of workmen who have suddenly descended on the house to repair the hole in the roof and the larger of the myriad cracks in the walls. In the late afternoon an hours walk, off his lead, across the fields and through the walnut groves. A red and gold carpet of leaves to be rolled in, pounced on and shuffled through. Completely lost to us in a world of simple enjoyment. Scents, perfumes, sights and memories ; stumpy tail wagging twenty to the dozen.

That tender, priceless joy all dog owners share when he would look up, find we'd gone on ahead, and then come charging after us with a ' Hold on a minute - Where do you think you're going ?' look - canine forbearance. A bark at the post lady in her little yellow van . In the evening pure delight when he gets a little pork with his rice and kibbles. Finally asleep, across my feet, while I read in the drawing room. Transferred warmth .

A happy, happy day full of laughter and love. When you know the destination such simple moments become treasures.

The cloned men of Koln.

A new Cortisone side effect. Sleep walking. 1.30 in the morning and Wilf has wandered into the bathroom - a strict 'no go' area. He's found sitting in the middle of the floor looking mightily confused. " Blimey ! How did I get here ? " Taken downstairs to get some fresh air he stares at the open door in amazement . " Me ? - Outside ? - In the dark ? - You must be mad " . Another subtle hint that our old family fellow is changing by the day.

Yours truly was in Koln talking to the directors of a large American company. 23 of them. All square jawed, identical and for all I know interchangeable. The sort of wild night where my grey suit marked me out as a rebel amidst the corporate American blue. In pre-dinner small talk I looked out of the window across the Rhine to the cathedral. The Chairman seemed less than interested when I pointed out that the hotel, and the ugly Lufthansa data processing centre next door, were built on the site of a Roman fortress. Davitia - the home of the XXII legion and at one time civilisations farthest outpost. From the monosylabic response I gathered this was not my best conversational gambit. Perhaps we were still deep in barbarian territory.

Wilf was waiting in the arrivals hall at the airport . The French are on strike again . As a result the terminal was unusually quiet. Only foreign carriers who had taken off with enough fuel for the return journey were operating. A military honour guard was standing waiting for some dignitary from the near east who had drawn up in his personal 747. Our family fellow soon spied 30 pairs of freshly polished French Army boots standing, tree like, in a row. He set off towards them with a determined , tyre christening, gait . One Polish Lowland Sheepdog hastily apprehended before he could demonstrate the precision of his aim. Diplomatic incident averted.

Day ten. This gentle, shared journey can still generate gales of laughter. He's sleeping longer in the mornings now and do we detect the first hints of confusion ?

Wilf PONders Shakespeare

" The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief "

Olive and ham angel cake.

Having hired the mobile discotheque for the weekend the canny village folk were determined to get a return on their money. Five thirty on Sunday afternoon and the 140 beats per minute thud, thud, thud of the sound system announced that the petanque competition had come to a close. The mayor was there, standing on a wooden orange crate for formalities sake , beaming broadly as he handed out the prizes. A bottle of wine for the seniors. A model Citroen for the youngsters. Everyone got a something. Liberte, egalite, and a pretence of fraternite between the warring village committees.

We arrived in time for the 'vin d'honneur'. Wilf was thrilled to come along - absolutely convinced that these gatherings in the village hall are held in his honour. Madame Bay and the village ladies had been busy in the kitchen. Handed what looked like a quiche we were informed that it was an olive and ham angel cake. 'The font looked at me. I looked at 'the font'. We both expressed diplomatic delight and amazement at its sophistication . Two weeks ago there would have been zero chance of Wilf tasting one of these high cholesterol bomblets. In current circumstances why not ? The rolling motion of his tongue, licking and re-licking his nose and muzzle, signalled a mark of ten out of ten for taste. Choucroute and now olive and ham angel cake - is there any dog out there that can match this culinary repertoire ?

The Cortisone continues to fuel his energy and his appetite. Two forty five minute walks, and no less than four thirty minute walks on Sunday. Add to that the swing biffing, rug surfing and the trip to the village hall and you have a feeling for just how lively he is. The Cortisone makes him drink a lot so the forays outside are a necessity. He's eating and playing to his hearts content - just what we would all want for our family fellows. Only the rapid, harsh breathing hints at what's at work inside. Onto a happy day seven.

Choucroute heaven

At seven last night the mobile discotheque sprang into life sending the sound of Tequila Boom Boom through the village at 140 beats a minute. We wandered over with Wilf at nine for a glass of wine and the prize ceremony for the most ' floral house '. As we crossed the green Madame Bay could be seen dancing happily in the middle of the petanque court. She was wearing what appeared to be an alpine hunting hat complete with pheasant feathers and a deep purple velvetine, diva style, evening gown. Imagine Jesse Norman onstage at the Met doing the chicken dance and you're three quarters of the way there.

" Wilfeee ! ". 'The font ' and I were treated as mere appendages as the family fellow became the centre of the saintly septaguenarians attention. The long suffering Monsieur Bay was sent to the kitchen of the village hall and returned with a paper plate of choucroute. Wilf sat patiently, an angelic smile etched onto his face, while it cooled down. A tongue rolling, paws curling combination of sauerkraut, sausages, boiled meats and potatoes. The look in his eyes said " this must be heaven ".

This morning he was up bright and early, keen to be out exploring. Left out of the gate, right past the war memorial and the church and onto the end of the village by the horses field. No need to direct him. He knows exactly where he wants to go. Today, it was a trip to the layby where the works department stores its gravel. Up and down he went like a mountain goat, climbing to the top of each two metre high pile and then triumphantly sliding down the other. So much energy,so much enthusiasm, so much fun. If only we didn't know about that little 55 millimetre by 63 millimetre growth . Still, there's no time for sadness . The extra days have brought equanimity and an understanding that these rule relaxed , choucroute filled days are simply the best.

Thanks again for all your kind support. I sometimes feel that there's an invisible world of well wishers following us down the lane - a watching pack of Labradors, Airedales, Boxers, Greyhounds, Scotties,PON's and all. Wilfs extended family.

Sausages ?

The rickety old farmhouse is divided in two by a corridor sixty feet long and twelve feet wide. In the old days the area where wood would be stored and the business of the day transacted. Now a place where Wilf can rug surf across the shiney old floor tiles to his hearts delight. Last night he was at his comedic best. He has perfected a routine where he walks, head held insouciantly high, to the end of the corridor . Then in a flash he turns, head down and charges at full speed for forty feet before leaping, full force, onto a rug . Wilf and rug then go sailing past in best surfer dude fashion. The look on his face is priceless. 'Bet you weren't expecting that !'. " Maybe not the first twenty times " we reply.

To the vets for some more Cortisone. A slight misunderstanding about the purpose of our visit. " I'll drive out and be with you in half an hour " he says. A smile and a gallic shrug of the shoulders when I explain that all we need is some more of this marvellous life affirming medication. Time enough for him to make that special house call later - hopefully much later.

Pasta for dinner and roast chicken for lunch. The bowl licked, spotlessly, clean. Another day of long walks. Five of them yesterday. In the afternoon he heads out, yours truly in tow, to a lane we've often walked past but never been down before. He ploughs on determined to use the time that's left to explore new sights and places. Boundless energy and a new found zest for life. A burning desire to just see over the brow of that hill or round that next corner.

Day 5. We're already 66% over the initial three days alloted to us. Man proposes, God disposes. Wilf's happy and mercifully pain free. There's no greater gift. Tonight the village is having a party on the petanque court. In readiness a mobile discotheque has already appeared . Wilf christened each of its tyres on his first walk of the new day. Fun and frolics are in store. If Madame Bay is in the kitchen there may be sausages.

Amazing. A year ago to the day since we left Italy.