Bertie watches me from the corner ...

 ... of the building we call "the abri" - the semi-derelict long shed that once was the milking parlour for Serge's cows and now, one day, maybe a proper, tidy storage area for summer furniture and gardening tools as opposed to the mess it is at the moment.

He is looking at me with a mix of anxiety and grumpiness. He thinks it's long past suppertime.  The clocks going back an hour a few weeks ago still cause him problems when he sees no evidence of his food being prepared.

I'm trying to cut the overlong damp grass that in summer is the neat green sward where our gite guests park their cars. The battery Stihl just about manages, provided I keep it on its highest cut and stop at the end of every row to pull out the wet clumps that are clinging to the blades.

By the time I've had enough (I find a hose half hidden in the grass and can't be bothered to clear it out the way and go on mowing. I'll do it tomorrow) Bertie has grown bored with trying to will me into feeding him and has headed back up towards the house to see if Tod is a softer target.

More in hope than expectation, we mow late, as the evenings draw in, giving the cold autumn sun and brisk wind a chance to take off the worst of the damp and make our task easier.  I hear Tod in the field trying to rev up the sit-on motor to encourage it forwards and stop it sliding back down the bank.

Afternoons have become a routine, before we mow.  We stroll along the canal towpath making the most of the weak sunlight, Bertie happily dawdling behind us, investigating new smells, until he suddenly realises we are too far ahead, and races to catch up, ears and tail flapping.  

These days we tend to wait for him. We are not sure how much he can see or hear and suspect it is not a lot.  He has been known to attach himself to a family walking in the other direction, much to their bemusement, and calling him has no effect. The situation requires a quick dash along the side of the canal in the hope that the newly adopted family with our dog at their feet has the sense to stop and wait for me.

His world has probably become vague shadows that he recognises. Familiar walks are the safest, food at the right time and beds and blankets in every corner.  Tissues and socks left within reach are chewed and swallowed (much to my horror) and I try to "Bertie-proof" the house - bins out of reach, and bathroom doors shut - toilet tissue is irresistible. I do not always succeed. I hear the sound of a piece of cutlery falling in the kitchen and find him with an egg box and three eggs smashed on the floor which he is licking up with gusto. Somehow over the last few years he has morphed into Vita - he who had little or no interest in food if it wasn't small, furry and still alive. These days he is constantly hungry and I wonder if all the tablets we are giving him are making him that way: tablets for wonky heart, declining kidneys, doubtful liver and achy joints.

Our vet reassures: "it is not the end, but it is the beginning of the end."  For now, he snores gently behind me as I type this, content in the knowledge that we have all had an excellent day and that supper did finally arrive, even if (for him) it was an hour later than it should have been.