Baby vampires.

Another hot day . The sort of morning when you set off into town with all the car windows down . Wilf settles in the shade of the cafe table and noisily slurps the water from his bowl. He's adjusting to the loss of vision well and seems quite happy and unstressed as long as he's in his harness and within reach of us.

While Wilf dozes, large black nose sticking out from under the table cloth, I read the morning papers. It took time but Charlie Sheens convoluted antics have finally made it into the French press. They don't even bother trying to translate " I'm not bi-polar , I'm bi-winning " preferring to leave it, for all to enjoy, in its native English . There's also a story from The Boston Globe about Kathy Spencer , a woman who is the ' Oprah of couponing '. Apparently she works coupons and store credits to get $60,000 of products for free each year. This seems like a good idea until I read her quote : " When a newbie couponer is birthed they are very much like baby vampires ". Hmmm.

We seem to have got Wilfs diabetes under control. Five nights in a row of uninterrupted sleep. Sweet peace all the way through until six in the morning. He has the sort of uncomplaining temperament that knows that the ' three grand essentials to happiness are something to do, something to love and something to hope for '.

A tantara of joy.

Five o'clock in the afternoon and a group of German pilgrims in matching red cagoules straggles through the village. Perhaps sixteen of them in total. Most walking in smiling, chattering pairs, but two at the end walking alone. Are the solitary ones deep in contemplative thought or have they argued with their colleagues ? Wilf rests his chin on the bar of the garden gate and listens to them go by. All, bar the two at the end, wave. For some reason Wilf doesn't bark . Something in their demeanour that says they're not a threat. Saintly pheromones perhaps ? As they leave the village the frogs in the pond burst into a croaking tantara of joy. Another hint of summer.

It's hot. Not warm but hot. With the sun setting Wilf follows me down the hill to the roman road. A shade dappled, well trodden, path. No surprises along this route to challenge our blind family fellow. Just the familiar scent of badger and deer. When we reach the stream he stops. First he stoops for a leisurely drink, then he slowly paddles along the waters edge, then finally he settles down on the bank for a refreshing nap. A scene so natural and peaceful it could almost be straight out of ' Wind in the Willows '. Another reassuring sign that he's coming to terms with his loss of vision.

Wilf sits in the garden with me while 'the font' heads off to the vets to find out the symptoms of Lens-Induced Uveitis. The head of practice on duty. The kindest, gentlest of professionals. His advice - " You'll know if he develops it ". As we set off on this new, unexplored, stretch of the journey it's so good to have an experienced, common sense, vet alongside. We'll worry about the things that are worth worrying about and forget the rest.

Marshmallow Fluff.

Seven thirty in the morning and I'm out, in shirt sleeves, with Wilf by my side. Nothing to disturb the silence bar the pigeons on the church tower and three happily clucking chickens
grubbing around the base of the war memorial. The sky roseate in the morning sun. One of those mornings which whispers ' summers nearly here '.

Home to find the shutters open and duvets hanging from every window. Madame Bay is ' airing ' the house. This is being done to Radio Nostalgie and the jaunty lyrics of ' I never promised you a rose garden '. The sort of tune that , once you hear it, has you humming it all day long. Madame Bay doesn't know the words to the song but that doesn't stop here from singing along enthusiastically. " Ey nahvah romis tyew bose gah-haddin ".

Off with Wilf to the supermarket to escape the hullabaloo. Pick up a strawberry flan for lunch. Ten minutes in the wine section unearths a 2005 Margaux. . On the way out spot the 'Great Britain' display. HP sauce, pot noodles, Dr.Peppers and Heinz baked beans. No wonder the French despair of us. A mysterious product - Marshmallow Fluff. What is it ? Must be American.

A wistful sigh.

Out with Wilf for our early morning amble along the lane. After the recent sunshine a chilly, overcast start to the day. Everywhere around signs of spring bursting into full throated song. We'd crossed the village green, made a quick detour to the fire hydrant and just turned for home when a living bundle of playfulness burst out of the vegetable garden. Kelleeee. Within seconds she was bounding up to us - tongue lolling , ears flying , paws heading in all directions. A canine ballet of disorderly confusion.

Over the last 24 hours Wilf has gone completely blind. At first I was worried that this unexpected visitor might frighten him. But no. He stood stock still as Kelly danced and leapt around him. A moment or two for him to work out what was happening and then he was a dog transformed. Shoulders back, head high, nose in the air. All the aches and pains and mistiness forgotten.

Kelly is clearly not the sort of girl to dawdle. Just as Wilf was beginning to make her acquaintance , she was off again. A blur of exuberant brown fur hurtling, pell-mell, past the war memorial. The mobile phone camera barely had time to focus but managed to pick up the tail end of their all too brief encounter. Wilf made a few hurried steps after her but although the mind was willing ....

Home with the old fellow. I can tell he's feeling low. The eyes now completely cloudy. His process of adjusting to the total darkness just beginning. He follows me , carefully, into the office and lies with his head on my feet. A wistful sigh : " I had rather a fool make me merry, than experience make me sad ".

" What can be done ? ".

This is the third night in a row that Wilf has slept solidlly all the way through . The recent problems with truncated sleep seem to be behind him. Diabetes management is undoubtedly a process of trial and error. It's not just the diet and insulin dosage. We're coming round to the view that last week he was hugely stressed by a further deterioration in his eyesight. Now that his flock is around him and he's in a firm routine he seems better able to cope with the blindness. Thankfully, through it all he maintains a ' better to light a candle than curse the darkness ' zest for life.

Madame Bay is busily hoovering upstairs. Our saintly septaguenarian readying the house for a mid-morning council of war. Another brick has fallen off the church tower. In the process it narrowily avoided the mayors secretary, who was sitting on the churchyard bench below, enjoying the sunshine. At ten thirty the mayor, the deputy mayoress, the little lady in the purple hat and the convenors of the ever feuding Village Fleuri and Beautiful Byeways committees are coming to the house for an emergency session. " What can be done M'Ongoose. What can be done ? ".

Hopefully, the deputy mayoress will bring a biscuit for Wilf. It can also be expected that the delegation will finish off the last of the chocolate Bath Olivers. I'm betting that our little get together will last two hours. 'The font' says two and a half. After all , this being France, everyone must say something at length. Twice.

Horse manure .

A beautiful , near cloudless, start to the day. Wilf joins me for the croissant run into town. The two of us make our way slowly round the market square stopping off at the newsagent, the bakers and the cafe. Not so long ago he used to do this circuit off the lead but now feels happier if he's guided along. The lady at the bakers comes to the door of the shop with the baguette and croissants. A nice gesture that means Wilf doesn't need to be left alone outside. The thoughtfulness of dog people. Back into the car. The old fellow waits patiently while I rush into the supermarket for some fresh oranges. Bag upon bag of horse manure piled high in the aisles. Not a sight we'd see in the UK .

It's still early so a quick detour down to the river for a walk . Every day we try to go somewhere new for fresh scents and experiences. This morning he's having none of it. After seventy yards he stops and turns on his back. Not so much rolling in the grass as wallowing. And there he lies. After a minute he's asleep and snoring. A private time to listen to gentle whispers. Every so often a local rides past on a bicycle wondering why an anglo-saxon is sitting on a stone by an upturned miniature polar bear. The gentle fun of life with an old dog.

The passionate PON.

At three on the dot Wilf was sitting by the garden gate ready for his afternoon walk. There could be no doubting where he wanted to go. A sharp turn to the left and then straight past the fire hydrant, the village green, the war memorial and the church. Refreshed by a lengthy post lunch nap he had only one destination in mind. Kelly's house.

No sign of Kelly, her mistress or the ageing Renault Clio. Not that Wilf seemed particularly bothered. He sniffed first one gate post, then the other. Then he sniffed the first gate post again. This process was repeated more frequently than seemed possible. At one point he even scratched the grass on the verge to get a better take on the canine Chanel number 5 lingering there. Fifteen minutes of adulatory sifting and analysis before he turned for home. Wilf the passionate PON.

He's noticeably thinner now. His shoulder blades and vertebrae hard to the touch. A new development. Yesterday, we twice found him sitting staring into mid-air and trembling. The sort of gentle, tooth chattering shivering that humans experience when they come out of really cold water. At this stage something quickly cured by a reassuring cuddle. The tumour metastasizes to its own rhythm.

The old fellows happy. When he gets tired he simply stops. When he's not tired he goes along at his own pace. A life lived in the belief that ' Leap, and the net will appear '.