Agitated hornets.

Still neither sight nor sound of the electrician, joiner, decorator, plumber or gutter repair man. Maybe they've already stopped work for Christmas ? Instead the gardeners arrived, unannounced. Four young men in red boiler suits showed up in two large white vans and were soon hyper-actively trimming the hedge, cutting down errant branches, and generally tidying up the garden. Wilf went out to briefly christen the tyres but faced with what sounded like four very large and very angry hornets he soon retreated inside.

For Wilf some days are good, some days are bad. Thankfully, overwhelmingly good. Over the last two months we've been spolit by Wilfs remarkable cortisone fuelled health. It's been all too easy to forget the tumour working away inside. This morning another reminder that each day now is precious. He simply refused to come with me into town for croissants. An unmistakeable look that said " I'll just stay here and rest " . My first trip to the bar alone in over a year. A lonely rite of passage. Maybe he'll feel like it tomorrow? A time for patience and love.

The highly strung chihuahua.

Sunday lunch at Toulouse Rugby Clubs brasserie. In the UK you'd be lucky to get a packet of pork scratchings and a can of lager at a match. Here in France we enjoyed ' la terrine de foie gras, pruneaux d'Agen et Armagnac ' followed by ' Barre d'Espadon au sesame. Bouchees vapeur aux crevettes '. Wilf was on his very best 'going out' behaviour. He studiously ignored the highly strung chihuahua in a red tartan raincoat at the table in the corner . Instead he positioned himself by 'the fonts' chair with a bowl of water and patiently waited while the chef prepared him some plain rice and chicken.

For an Anglo-Saxon it's difficult to say what's odder about life in France. Is it the quality of the food at a rugby venue ? Or is it the natural assumption that your dog will join you ( and be well behaved ) in a restaurant for lunch ? For his part Wilf has settled enthusiastically into French life and now seems to think that going out to eat with us is entirely natural. However, I can't help but wonder if you'd ever find a British waiter talking unselfconciously to a dog ? For that matter I can't imagine a British chef coming out to ask Wilf if he'd like any more rice. After his culinary adventure our family fellow slept particularly well last night.

A hint of punk in his hairstyle.

A good week for Wilf. He's tasted a meringue in the bakers, had croissant crumbs drizzled into his mouth at the cafe and been given coconut ice cream at home. The only downside for him was that he had a bath. His first, much needed, encounter with water and shampoo in eight weeks. This morning his coat is warm, soft and sparklingly clean with just a hint of punk in his hairstyle.

No hiding the fact that he's getting tired more easily now. His time is divided between sleeping, eating, being fussed over and going for gentle ambles. A stable, surprise free routine. Thankfully, there's still no pain and his quality of life is second to none. But his senses are dimming and his entire world is getting smaller. This week for the first time his joints stiffened and he wasn't able to leap into the back of the car. He accepts being lifted up and down with all the grudging grace of a grumpy, old retired colonel .

In the 'tartan' family bedroom at the end of the upstairs corridor a huge surprise. One of last years poinsettias has not only survived but its leaves are turning red again. In the afternoons , when he wants peace and quiet, Wilf wanders into this bedroom and dozes on the sunny floor. It's as if he's waiting for the rooms occupant to come back home - his herding not complete until all his flock is accounted for. Dogs communicate with us in so many ways.

The only place to be.

Yesterday, winter finally arrived in France profonde. The skies remained obdurately grey, the wind blew and an occasional flake of snow would make a brief, lack lustre appearance. For Wilf there was only one place to be - the kitchen. He watched completely entranced as 'the font ' made a chicken pie for lunch . Each ingredient savoured, considered and approved. Through it all we were treated to his best ' kindly remember that I'm here ' orphan dog routine.

After much encouragement and the use of the magic word 'croissants' he agreed to leave his warm spot by the stove and come with me into town . A few days ago he was able to leap up into the back of the car but now he has to be helped up. A little reminder that we should all be enjoying every day to the full. At the bakers a new delight. The woman at the cash desk came outside to where Wilf was patiently waiting and gave him half a meringue. Half a brandy snap last week and now this . Bliss.

Spot the mistake.

Despite morning,noon and night calls to the missing workmen there is still no sign of any activity at the rickety old farmhouse . How is it possible for them to disappear completely ? Must be alien abduction . Have to wonder what the chances are of getting the gutters up and the electrical work finished ahead of Christmas and the familys return .

Off with Wilf to the big town sophistication of the regional capital to pick up the glass splash back for the new stove . We stopped off at a McDonalds on the motorway ! An activity frowned upon by 'the font' but wholeheartedly approved of by the family fellow. He sat by me at an outside table noisily savouring small bits of quarter pounder with cheese. Fast food now added to the list of culinary favourites alongside cauliflower cheese, tagliatelli, baked potatoes and of course coconut ice cream.

Got the splash back home only to discover that the electricians had made one huge mistake. Look carefully at the positioning of the wall mounted electrical sockets in the bottom photo and see if you too can spot the deliberate error ! Wilf remains hopeful that he will have another trip to the glass cutters and to McDonalds.

Quality time.

The weather forecast was quite simply abysmal with warnings of gale force winds, extreme cold and des gelees blanches . More like Iceland than France. It came as something of a surprise then to open the front door and find the sun rising into a near cloudless sky. The rest of Europe might have been brought to a halt by freezing temperatures and thick snow but the garlic growing region of South West France remains as warm and bright as a Scottish autumn day.

Down the hill with Wilf for a sun blessed walk along the valley floor. It's either a sign of the illness or a side effect of the cortisone but his back legs and hips are becoming noticeably stiffer and losing some of their suppleness and strength. Whatever the reason he refuses to complain and continues to exude his trademark affability and enthusiasm. Life is just taken at a more temperate pace. When tired our family fellow simply stops, lies down in the sun and observes his surroundings until he's ready to move on again. Wilfs motto : - Borrowed time can still be quality time.

This morning we met a wizened old farmer out for his morning constitutional . A beret wearing countryman with a gun slung over his shoulder on the look out for a rabbit for the lunchtime pot. He shook my hand, introduced himself, asked where we lived, and then bent down and greeted Wilf. We spoke about the weather, the proper way to serve foie gras, the local vets, his son in Toulouse, and the recent loss of his best hunting dog. " Dogs - they bring us joy and tears". Then he paused before carrying on " but mostly joy ".

UFO's, smoked salmon and diplomacy.

To the hypermarket in Toulouse to look for Scottish smoked salmon for St.Andrews night. Alaskan, Norwegian, Irish, Welsh, Bio. Everything but Scottish. After much searching finally found a few packs marked 'Ecosse Sauvage' skulking at the bottom of a refrigerated counter . Buying wine was much easier . The shelves were fully stocked and groaning under a huge selection of pre-Christmas delights. Yours truly could have spent all day there but 'the font' wanted to hurry back to pay Madame Bay.

As she was leaving the house Madame Bay informed us that we live in a UFO hotspot . Another of those gems of local information for which our saintly cleaning lady is famous. It seems that our little patch of paradise reports more strange objects in the sky than any other part of France . " Nothing to do with being an hour from the Airbus factory in Toulouse ? " I suggested. ' Mais Non ! ' came the emphatic reply. ' Why, Delphine ( her eldest daughter ) had been woken up at four o'clock one morning by strange lights in the garden . And M'Ongoose the intruders were completely silent ! ' The existence of extra terrestrial life proved beyond any reasonable doubt . My sympathy lies with Delphines sleep interrupted husband - but that was diplomatically left unsaid.

Dicussing the failings of the French rugby team with the owner of the bar this morning I suddenly heard Wilf issue a quiet bark. Something he never does in public. The peroxide waitress had collected all the crunchy crumbs from the mornings croissant delivery and was drizzling them slowly into Wilfs open mouth. Faced with a culinary treat like that he simply couldn't keep quiet. Canine sherbet. Life just keeps on getting better. I could have sworn he was smiling when he clambered up into the car.