Bob sits on his stump seat looking ferocious. Or at least an approximation of ferocious.
Sophie has rolled, luxuriantly, in a liquid cow pat. She has been bathed, reluctantly and thoroughly.
In the supermarket dried 'Trumpet of Death' mushrooms make an appearance.
The old soldiers brave the chill winds for their Algerian War commemoration. They then head into the village hall for a reviving glass of wine. They're still there at 4:20 when we return from our afternoon walk. We meet the district nurse wheeling the Very Old Farmer back home across the village green. He tickles Bobs ear. Sophie , uncertain of the wheelchair, hides behind my knee.
Just another quiet day with dogs in deepest, deepest France profonde.