Blogger Problems.

Three attempts to post pictures this morning . None are succesful . According to the note on the screen we've filled up all the memory on our Google account . Normal service will be resumed as soon as Angus can work out what to do. Technology and Angus are not natural bedfellows so this may not be until tomorrow .

Three words.

In a dogs compressed life you see the changes . Falling asleep in unexpected places . Staggering when lifting a leg. Turning left when he's always turned right. Yesterday, irritating growths under his left eyelid. An ever attentive young vet sees him straight away. Twice a day insulin injections. Nose, and now eye drops, morning and evening . No complaints. Just a gentle , unhurried , drifting .

The question has started to crop up more frequently. Time to say goodbye ? Not if you saw him devouring lunch , scuttling through the grass or gently taking a biscuit from one of the young builders. He's a fighter. A comic through and through . Sheepdogs must have a dominant gene that keeps them guarding their flock. That and a passion for sausages, coconut ice cream and illicit Jaffa Cakes.

On our evening walk we meet the really , really old farmer. 89. He asks after Wilf. '' Is he eating well ? ". ' Three times a day and more if he could ' I reply . He nods , thinks for a moment, laughs then says : " Love is patient " .

Funny . You spend your life hearing words, reading words, speaking words, writing words. Then you come across a farmer who sums up what it means to have an old dog in just three of them .

Slaughtered Italian .

The French air traffic controllers are a bolshie lot. They were having yet another of their impromptu one day strikes . When British Airways finally got to Toulouse the Frontier Police were working to rule . The queue at immigration stretching back to the gate . The line comprised the entire population of Paris with yours truly at the very back . It moved very, very slowly . So close and yet so far .

Wilf and ' the font ' were waiting patiently at the cafe in the arrivals area. ' The font ' had chosen a table right on the concourse. Wilf was underneath it, asleep on his back, emitting snoring sounds from one end and intermittent trumpeting sounds from the other . The delayed effects of a broccoli and beans diet . Angus had liberated two Oat Crunch biscuits from the plane . PON favourites which were gratefully received .

Home to find that the workmen have unexpectedly uncovered septic tanks number 5 and 6 . The gravel in front of the house a mass of trenches and exposed pipes. '' You've got quite a collection . Perhaps you could open a museum ? " says the jovial foreman . The humour of living in a septic tank museum passes Angus by.

Over dinner ' the font ' reads out the menu from the new pizzeria that's opened up in the little market town . The salmon pizza with cream, tomato and cheese proof that only the French know how to really slaughter Italian cuisine. Wilf liked the sound of the chicken pizza with goats cheese and honey .

Kitchen fixtures and fittings.

Angus is in London giving a speech to men in dark suits . Wilf is spending the day in the kitchen watching selle d'agneau being prepared for dinner . One immovable kitchen fixture. There may be some broccoli tonight for this small white polar bear co-joined to my ankles.

Canine charm.

Monday morning in SW France . A hint of autumn in the air . The tables at the bar under the arcade all stacked away in the belief that no one could possibly want to sit outside . Wilf joins me inside at a banquette in the corner . He's soon asleep , deaf to the beer and absinthe crowd watching the umpteenth replay of France beating England on the television . The old fellow rouses himself, briefly, canine charm personified, when the waitress slips him the ends from a croissant .

On our way home we stop for a walk by the river . A flock of turkeys , escapees from the farm at the junction , are clucking merrily away on the verges . They scatter in noisy panic when Wilf arrives .The three horses owned by the Matron of the Old Folks Home wander across the field to see what all the noise is about . Such sociable animals. I stop to chat . Wilf wanders on head down in the dewy grass, lost in his own content world equally oblivious to horses and turkeys .

" Let us be grateful to those who make us happy ; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom ".

Can a dog be grateful ?

Can a dog be grateful ? Can it even understand what gratitude is ?

A year ago this week Wilf was taken to the specialists and given three days to live . Here he is a year on . Older, blind, less steady on his feet, diabetic, increasingly confused , but still enjoying life and making his family laugh .

Can a dog be grateful ? A year has taught us that dogs , every bit as much as humans , know that there is always, always, always something to be thankful for .

Perhaps you could go on a course ?

'' The font '' speaks French with precision . Angus speaks French with gusto . After two years '' the font '' is somewhat alarmed that Angus has not improved his language skills . Admittedly he has picked up an encyclopaedic knowledge of French plumbing terms which enables him hold his own with anyone on the subject of septic tanks and u-bends. He has also picked up a slew of rugby phrases along the lines of '' Oi ref ! You must be blind " . Neither of these skill sets are viewed by '' the font '' as the basis for widening our circle of French acquaintances beyond rugby addicted sanitary engineers. '' Perhaps you could go on a course ? " comes the suggestion over breakfast.

Autumn has arrived . The first clouds in two months . A chilly 16 degrees on our early morning walk past the little old church . A strangely exotic tree in the graveyard . England play France later today . A chance to further refine my colloquial French . Wilf doesn't need to go on a course . He already knows every word for food in both the English and French dictionaries .There may be some undercooked hamburger coming his way if France wins.