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La Roche is exactly how you would picture a small village in South-West France. Red-tiled roofs, quaint shutters, a cat picking its way slowly across the square towards the mairie in the bright winter sunshine. My wife Penny and I live in what locals call ‘La Maison Toute Seule’ (The House All Alone), hidden at the end of a track by the forest. One morning in late October, our two dogs a puppyish female black labrador, Plum, and a stately male border terrier, Rupert started barking uncontrollably at something beyond the stone wall of the front garden. The usual cause of such canine commotion is the escape of our pony Zeb, the Harry Houdini of horses. So I grabbed a lead rope, marched outside and opened the wooden front gate. But instead of Zeb, there was a bedraggled and aged golden labrador. ....