' Since it is denied us to live long let us do something to show we have lived '.

Saturday afternoon. A change in Bobs behaviour. A collection of little things that we'd like to ignore but which take us to the vet. A full 45 minute examination. 'Probably just an infection' but an appointment for scans at the hospital in Toulouse arranged for Thursday. Metacam prescribed. Bob, unaware of human worries about his health, remains gloriously happy.

This morning at first light it's off down the hill to the stream. Bob and Angus go slowly. Not for Bobs sake but for his master who is less sure footed in the mud. A morning to spend with the family fellow doing nothing in style.  

Overnight, leaves have clogged the little waterfall. This interferes with minnow fishing but doesn't hinder Bob from having a go. I laugh at the sight of a large furry paw waving ineptly over the surface before splashing down. 

Here, away from the wind, dragon flies flit in the reed beds. Exotic bursts of lapis lazuli against the winter foliage. A grey heron, a female deer and a red headed woodpecker watch nervously from the shelter of the trees. This year the wild roses have produced masses of bright orange hips that attract clouds of starlings. A sign of a harsh winter to come ? In the field behind us, where the farmer has deep ploughed the clay soil, scores, possibly hundreds, of blue and yellow finches are grubbing for insects. They argue as they bob up the furrow ridge and into the dip, up the ridge and into the dip. Nature at its most comical. The low sun burns off the mist in the frost hollows. As the soil dries it emits faint 'popping' sounds. 

Dog and master head back up the hill. 35 minutes down, an hour back. Bob moves ahead with purpose, sniffing the verges, rolling in the long grass and barking at invisible things. ' Since it is denied us to live long let us do something to show we have lived '; the fill every second secret of canine contentment.

Sunday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde with a family fellow.