Indian delights ?

Back from a wet and chill London. Placed the order for Christmas puddings at Fortnums, saw a rather lovely still life in the window of an art gallery in Bond Street, looked at a display of Hungarian Herend vases and just had time left over to give a lunchtime talk to an oil company in St. James's.

'The font' is on one of those anti-caffeine health kicks so I met up with my nearest and dearest at the hot chocolate stand at Toulouse airport. Hot chocolate at four in the afternoon ! Yeugh. Make mine a double espresso any day. Wilf was to be found sitting under the table carefully studying each of the passengers hurrying past. He was clearly hoping, against hope, that one of them would drop a string of freshly cooked sausages. After an enthusiastic tongue waggling public display of affection ( from Wilf I hasten to add not 'the font') the three of us walked slowly back to the car. We paused en route so he could christen a few tyres, listen to the wind and just generally PONder. The family fellows ever more contented, ever more unhurried pace of life at this late stage of his journey.

In London saw a cookbook on Scandinavian recipes. Thought of buying it for 'the font' until I came across a recipe for elk stew. That was the end of that. Instead bought a book on Indian cooking by the exotically named Pushpesh Pant. What a glorious name. If Wilf is lucky he may get lamb biryani for dinner tonight.

Wilfs Thursday morning PONder.

" Life is not about waiting for the storms to pass, it's about learning how to dance in the rain ".

The brandy snap.

It's a bright but chilly 6 degrees this morning. Wilf and I sat out in solitary splendour under the cafes gas heater while the rest of the early morning patrons looked at us half quizically, half pityingly from inside. We might as well have had the word foreigner ( ie mad ) tattooed in large letters on our brows. At the bakers the lady behind the counter slipped Wilf half a brandy snap. Wilf gave her that look that said " I love you ".

'The font' returned yesterday afternoon. When Wilf heard the car turn into the driveway he literally leapt up and hurtled out of the front door. He seemed to cover the hundred yards to the garage in what appeared to be one single bound. I'd swear blind his feet didn't even touch the ground. Even by PON standards it was an emotional and enthusiastic reunion. He lead us into the kitchen with a purposefulness in his gait that screamed out he was happy to have " decent food again ! ".

What a sweet gesture.

With 'the font' away for 'Granny fonts' 92nd birthday Wilf and yours truly were left to fend for ourselves. Pizza for lunch and a pre-cooked chicken casserole - "all you have to do is warm up the oven" - for dinner. It should be noted that pizza crusts rank up there with cauliflower cheese as an all time PON favourite.

After Wilf had enthusiastically finished off a large bowl of chicken and potatoes it was time for fun in the hallway. Not so long ago we would have rug surfed and played rugby for forty five minutes solid. Now, it's three minutes of action , ten minutes of down time, three minutes of action, fifteen minutes of down time. Come nine thirty prompt, he got up, put his paw on my arm and clearly announced it was his bedtime. Uncanny.

The mayor came to see me late in the morning. The pigeons have got into the church belfry again and a dead bird has fallen into the mechanism and stopped the clock. No more chiming thirteen - twice - on the hour every hour. I prayed that my delight wasn't too obvious.

We wandered across the village green to see what could be done. After yesterdays heavy rain the church roof is leaking and the plaster work behind the frescoes is bowing with the resulting damp. The church is a strange affair. During the '14-'18 war the village was decimated. 10% of the population killed and a similar number maimed. All young men or rather almost all the young men. After the war the villagers covered every square inch of the old building with paintings commemorating the war, the fallen, and their grief. There's now a very real danger that it may all crumble into dust.

While the mayor and I discussed the options Wilf stretched out on his back on the gravel outside the church door. When we emerged there was one very comfortable, very relaxed boy snoring peacefully away.

Just as it was getting dark the mayors wife appeared at the front gate with a small 'cedar of lebanon' sapling taken from the ancient old tree in the churchyard. She'd remembered that Digby had passed on six months ago and had brought this to plant over his resting place on top of the ridge. What a sweet gesture. Despite its struggles our little French village is a place of continuity.

Dreech.

A wet front has blown in from the Atlantic bringing with it dreech, Hebridean like weather. Layer on layer of black cloud blocking out the light. Darkness at noon, or more precisely darkness at quarter past eight in the morning. Not that Wilf was bothered. He sat with me under the arches savouring his bowl of water, nibbling on the end of a croissant, listening to the laughter of the early morning tipplers and watching the townsfolk scurrying past. On our sodden way back to the car I could swear that he jumped in every puddle he saw. Nothing quite like a satisfying splosh to raise a dogs spirits. If the mischief quotient is anything to go by he still has a lot of life left in him yet. Trust a dog to get you laughing on a morning like this.

And the winner is ? Cauliflower cheese !

Up and out bright and early. Another day with the sun shining down from a blue cloudless sky, the barest hint of a breeze and a world aglow with autumn colours. The poplars on the distant ridges outlined by the clear morning light like so many golden, fiery swords stretching across the horizon.

Wilf and I wander down to the little brook at the foot of the hill. Last week he charged along its banks and stooped to drink the water but this week he's content to amble along the road beside me. Every two hundred yards or so he halts and settles down in the long grass to rest. There would have been a time when I'd have hurried him along but now we both stop, happy in the moment. He looks at the cormorants and egrets, I study the orchids in the hedgerows. A journey of discovery for both of us.

No doubting now that the pace of his journey is picking up. That boundless energy ebbing away to be replaced by an acceptance and contentment. This morning the dose of prednisolone increased to soothe the tumours pressure on the diaphragm . What a blessing to have two vets close at hand who treat each dog as if its their own and take the time to ensure that this final stretch is pain free and full of laughter.

'The font' and I chuckle as we review his menu for the week. Cauliflower cheese - a surprising but clear favourite, cheese omelette a close second. Third place ? Could be Madame Bays spit roasted ham, the duck in cassis, the turbot braise au beuree d'herbes or last nights effeuille de saumon aux perles de hareng. Coconut ice cream in a clear muzzle licking class of its own. Through it all Wilf remains, as he has been for the last nine years, a family clown , herder and confidant. Sitting with him in the long grass, reminiscing, a recognition that for dog owners no laughter is as sweet as that which struggles through shared memories. Happy, irreplaceable, family days. Pork, roast potatoes, peas and fruit tart for lunch.

Sages leave your contemplations.

It's back to summer after the chastening wind and rain of the last few days. Not a cloud in the sky and temperatures back above 20. This morning Wilf sat contentedly outside the cafe, basking in the warmth, his hair glowing in the bright early sunshine . For him the absinthe imbibing gentlemen on their motability scooters and the cheery peroxide waitress have now become a reassuring, hair tousling constant in his daily routine.

Onto the vets for a checkup. As I lifted the tailgate Wilfs face said it all - " I've had quite enough proding and poking to last a lifetime ". He sat immovable in the back of the car - " I ain't going !".

Isn't it amazing how dogs can manage to defy the laws of physics and convert themselves into a ten ton dead weight when they don't want to move ?.

The good news is that he's definitely not in any pain but his bi-daily dose of cortisone is going to be increased slightly. The young lady vet has clearly learnt how to deal with obdurate patients. She spoiled him rotten. A bisou, a cuddle and some sweet talk and by the time she'd finished the examination he didn't want to leave. The vet cheekily told me she deals with all males like that. Wilf lay on the surgery table looking infatuated - ' Tell me again that bit about me being handsome '. We'll go back again in four or five days to check on his lungs and the growth of the tumour to ensure there's no discomfort. The diagnosis is that as long as he's keen to eat he'll be just fine.

The three American lady professors and show tune loving Merv came for dinner last night. Wilf settled down under the table and was soon on his back snoring gently.They plan to head off in their rental car later today for a weeks sightseeing. Four people - four entirely different proposed itineraries. Listening to the ever lengthening list of 'must see' destinations I decided that it would be churlish to point out that France is bigger than Delaware. Merv is going to be working the stick shift for all its worth if they want to do a tenth of what they've got planned. The line from the old hymn 'sages leave your contemplations' lodged in my mind as I dreamt of our four friendly academics hurtling across the plains of Picardy in their little Renault.