Wolf lore.

Read this article on the flight back from Moscow. Apparently the book 'In defence of dogs ' has become a best seller in the US. Liked the insight into wolves . Wilf certainly isn't an American timber wolf.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/jul/17/dog-training-john-bradshaw-animal-behaviour?INTCMP=SRCH

The old charmer.

Back from two nights of after dinner talks in a hot and humid Moscow. A string of thunderstorms across Ukraine have us strapped into our seats for three hours . Wilf and 'the font ' meet me at the Toulouse airport cafe . ' The font ' is enjoying a healthy fruit smoothie . Wilf is under the table munching on a large gluten free biscuit given to him by an admiring waitress. There can be no doubting that the old charmer is determined to enjoy the time that's left to him .

A biscuit , a new waitress friend , a reunited flock and a gentle tyre christening stroll back across the car park . Not bad for a days work . Wilf oblivious to the shadows lengthening around him . He falls asleep as soon a I lift him into the back of the car . Unbridled joy can be exhausting . He's still asleep when we get home . I'll miss these simple family routines .

Wilfs Tuesday morning PONder .

'' I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind .
Some come from ahead and some come from behind .
But I've bought a big bat . I'm already you see .
Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me ! "'

Wilfs start of the week PONder .

'' The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning".

A thousand reasons to smile .

" What do you feed your roses on ? " asks the prim retired generals wife as she conducts a whirlwind tour of inspection . ' Oh , nothing. They just seem to love it here ' I reply , neglecting to mention the fact that they're planted on top of the leaky two hundred year old septic tank . She seems satisfied with this answer and , after a glass of wine and some more staccato questions she leaves , having met the strange couple who bought the rickety old farmhouse . Unexpected visitors . One of the joys of living in a French village .

The privacy panels are now up and painted . The view into the hallway at least partially shielded from the occasional tourist that drives past , mouth agape . One tiny design flaw . The tractor and combine harvester drivers who account for the bulk of the traffic just look over the top of the gate.

' There's no flesh on you ' says ' the font ' to Wilf while looking for a place to inject his early morning insulin . Wilf lies on the kitchen floor uncomplaining and happy , as he does every morning , oblivious to his , now accelerating , weight loss . The PON creed - 'when life gives you a hundred reasons to cry , show life that you have a thousand reasons to smile ' .

Crowned with smiles .

Friday night . Out to the fancy hill top restaurant for dinner . The staff have set up a table in the little paved garden by the petanque court so that Wilf can settle down undisturbed by the holiday hubbub on the terrace . One of those unexpected and unasked for kindnesses that continue to punctuate our journey . The old fellows already eaten but the waitress brings him out a bowl of chicken and rice . You can sense the canine contentment radiating out from under the table .

On our way back to the car we pass the old pilgrimage church . The lights blazing . A Danish choir en route to Santiago performing . The family fellow sits down next to me on the porch steps while ' the font ' goes to fetch the car . Through the mottled wooden door the sound of Tchaikovsky's Crown of Roses . The diction clear in that precise Scandinavian manner . Then Parry's ' My soul there is a country far beyond the stars '. A rare and beautiful piece I've not heard in forty years . Memorable for the line - " there above noise and danger sweet peace sits crowned with smiles " . A Welsh poem , much loved by the Pilgrim Fathers ( and George Washington ) , sung by Danes , set to music by an Englishman and listened to on the steps of an ancient French church by a blind Polish Sheepdog , his Scots companion and of course their Swedish driver. Summer in France profonde . Home at eleven . Wilf dreams , solidly , 'til six.

Tell me another !

They were due to start at ten but , this being France profonde , the Bastille Day celebrations started twenty minutes late . It seems that the mayor had forgotten his reading glasses and had to go home to get them . Suitably bespectacled he and the little lady in the broad brimmed purple hat were then finally able to process the twenty yards from the town hall to the war memorial . The mayor read out a few , inaudible, patriotic words and the little lady in the purple hat sang the Marseillaise in her slow , almost conversational , Edith Piaf way . Then it was off, in a republican rush , to the village hall for a drink.

While the old farmer handed out glasses of armagnac, Madame Bay and the ladies of the village fleuri committee cut up sizeable wedges of their goats cheese , anchovy and courgette quiche . Wilf sat on the village green grinning with happiness . More than the occasional, surreptitous, morsel came his way . Through it all he had that bon viveurs ' tell me another ' look on his face . A sure sign that he thought this was all arranged for his benefit . PON's know the truth in the old saying : ' Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul ".