A walk in the country.

The old fellow may have bought his ticket . His bags may be packed . But he's in no rush to get to the station .

The secret to a long, happy, life .

A day for dozing in the garden . After roast chicken and coconut ice cream we manage a late evening walk to the war memorial and fire hydrant. Wilfs attitude to life ?  " Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday ".

As it should be .

In the church the Saints statue is taken down from its niche and given its annual dusting. Across the lane , in the village hall , the lady with the beehive hairdo and the silver Ford Mondeo is setting up tables. Outside her husband and the man in the yellow day-glo yellow jacket are stacking logs. The mayor, the mayors wife , and the ever efficient town hall secretary are inspecting the oleanders in the churchyard. " The snow didn't do them any good " says the mayor. For emphasis , or possibly to help foreigners who might not understand the finer points of gardening , Madame Mayor points towards a shrivelled, clearly dead, bush. '' No good at all " she adds for good measure. We nod .

Wilf spends his day sleeping. The old fellow happily oblivious to the  preparations for the village Saints Day . He used to get up at six for the morning croissant run . Now he sleeps 'til nine . A quick breakfast of softened kibbles and chicken followed by a leisurely saunter in search of pigeon guano. The obligatory christening of the fire hydrant . Then there's time for a morning doze in the garden followed by an afternoon doze in the hallway . He joins ' the font ' in the kitchen before a pre-bedtime nap in the orchard . Exactly the way things should be . Gentle drifting . 

Old PONs instinctively know : " time is too slow for those who wait , too swift for those who fear , too long for those who grieve , too short for those who rejoice , but for those who love , time is eternity ".

PON tenacity .

Angus is ready. ' The font ' is ready. The vet is ready. Everyone is ready apart from Wilf . He has other ideas . PON tenacity. Wilful by name ; Wilful by nature .

To everyones surprise the family fellow has a great day. Not a good day , a great day. It's hot. He lies on his back on the cool grass of the cherry orchard, snoring. Paws pointed skywards. The sun warming those old limbs and driving out the arthritis. At one point he wanders, unsteadily,  to the stream for a drink. Even better. He starts to eat again. Three small meals of kibbles ( soaked in water now to make them softer ) and chicken. Dog and food , miraculously , remain united. The vet stops by just as Wilf is christening the peonies. '' No problems with those kidneys " he says with a laugh.

A quick check . No pain . The kind vet ( sometimes I think he prefers animals to humans ) suggests we let things drift. The prognosis : It won't be long.  '' A candle gives off the most beautiful light as it  burns down ". French country common sense. From now on no more Cortisone or Previcox. Just the insulin twice a day and , a new treatment , Gaviscon three times a day to deal with the inflamed stomach. As he goes the vet gives me his home number . '' I'm around when he needs me ''.

There's a family of sparrows nesting in the laurel hedge. A dozen young. Argumentative and playful. Wilf settles down to sleep again while they flit and sing and play on the grass around him. New life and old in harmony . Another sunny , bone warming , day is forecast .

Not so quickly !

It was a strong anti-emetic . Wilf lifted from the back of the car and laid , still dozing , on his bed . He sleeps soundly. Quite immovable . After breakfast we call the vet . It's a national holiday in France . We'd forgotten. The surgery closed . Open again tomorrow. An emergency vet we don't know available in a town forty kilometres away . No thanks . 

By lunchtime Wilf seems  better. Weak, but better. The amazing ' not so quickly ' miracle dog.  A small meal of kibbles and shredded chicken eaten with enthusiasm . Amid much laughter he even manages to christen the peonies . In the late afternoon a slow walk, more a plod, across the  village green to the war memorial. Those big paws sinking into the long grass. A deep sleep in the orchard until midnight. Wind rustling his fur. What determination. What zest for life. We go to bed hopeful. That roller coaster of emotions that comes with an old dog .

This morning ' the font ' has to head back to London. So many arrangements to make, people to see , certificates to get signed . Wilf wanders out to the peonies, returns and promptly brings up yesterdays food . All of it . He looks crestfallen. I'll call the vet this morning. I'd really like to put off the moment, that moment , until ' the font ' gets back on the first flight tomorrow. If I can't ...

And when we arrive at the end of our journey ?

To the vets. The cancer returning. Wilfs given an injection. This morning I'd expected to find him asleep but somehow the old fellows summoned up the strength to stand by the front door. That comical ' come on , let's get going ' impatience. 

Back bowed, legs stiff, head down, he moves off towards the church. A walk done a thousand times before. A familiar , comforting, routine. Village green, war memorial, pond.  The fire hydrant christened with a half stumbling cock of the leg. A look of male determination etched on his face. I chuckle and give encouragement. The precision of a champion.He shuffles playfully through the leaves. The slow, crinkly, sound of mischief .

We pause by the stream. Water rippling over pebbles, a distant cuckoo, chattering finches, sunlight. Frogs. Lots and lots of noisy frogs. There's no need to hurry today. A fact unspoken but understood. Some days are special. Today is special . He lies in the long grass holding his head high , slowly sniffing the air, as if to fix this moment firmly, forever,  in place .

' The font ', back from the airport, joins us. Wilf dissolves into a fluffy ball of stump wagging joy. He ambles happily back home. By the pond he stumbles. I pick him up and carry this old friend towards the gate. It won't be long now. A gentle, oh so gentle, gathering in of the light . There again Wilf has never been one to be hurried .

Coincidence ?

The second round of the Presidential elections. Seven thirty and there's already half a dozen tractors parked around the war memorial. Early rising farmers waiting to vote . At quarter to eight the mayor  arrives to open up the town hall. He looks flustered , trademark pork pie hat pushed back on his head . He can't find the front door key. A farmer lends him his mobile phone. Five minutes later Madame Mayor arrives in the very old Renault without hubcaps. She's brought the keys, a plate of honey croissants, and her eight year old granddaughter. The sleepy child still in pink pyjamas. On the dot of eight the blinds in the town hall are raised and the polling station officially opens. Madame Mayor offers the unwary a honey croissant . 

In the afternoon a brief but violent hail storm blows down from the mountains. For a few minutes the house and village carpeted in an inch of sparkling  white. As the hail beats against the roof Wilf wanders into the library . He settles down across my feet . That look all dog owners know . '' Don't think I'm frightened. I've just come in to guard you " . 

'The fonts' away . One of lifes inevitable duties . In the small hours Wilf wakes and lets out one loud howl . Not a bark, a howl . Three twenty exactly . I go downstairs by which time the phone is ringing . Coincidence?