Usually these days, I'm to be found in the crowded markets of Moissac or Valence d'Agen, a pleasure I'd forgone long ago.

I carry neither bag nor straw basket like the British, nor do I pull a shopping basket behind me like the French, who like shopping made easy.

My hands have to be free, for at any moment, Polly, the educateur canin (dog trainer and pysch) will thrust César's slip lead into them and say: "Right, your time."

My heart sinks and with just the first feeble pull, the pup - now at almost seven months already bigger than a large Alsatian - knows, and turns for a quick look of contempt.

Within minutes, the beautiful dancing gait and focus have been replaced by a march ahead attitude and an attempt to pull to where he wants to go, not me.

My eyes flicker constantly waiting for the first dog to hove into view. I know my anxiety is fluttering down me into the lead, into the collar and into him.

But I can't control it. A large, tough mutt wanders close without a lead. César ignores him but my heart is thumping and Polly has moved closer to my side.

We turn a corner; an inoffensive, aged Cavalier King Charles is padding by with an equally inoffensive very old woman owner.

C's head snaps, I feel the propulsion beginning and I yell loudly: "Leave it,' while jerking the slip collar. I'm seconds too slow and he leaps forward leaving me dragging and choking him back as I feel my feet slipping.

He rears, howling and barking, as Polly grabs the lead from me, yanks him firmly up shouting: "This is not acceptable," in both French and English.

He drops and she briskly moves him at a trot onwards. I puff my e-cig with the desperation of an addict and once more follow on.

I'm aware of shoppers and stallholders who moments earlier were stopping to discuss his race, his beauty, his magnificence, now re-evaluating.

The howl is truly monumental. Ear-splitting aggression with no apparent cause.

I think it's because he's on the lead but he cannot be off it. There is no pattern in the dogs he chooses and to socialise him with all sorts of dogs he gets driven once a week 35 minutes away to kennels where the dogs run all day in fenced and gated grounds.

They tell me he's a delight. Respectful to the ones who don't want his boisterous attentions, playful with those that do, and gentle with the little ones.

That may be, but at this moment I will not risk going out alone with him unless it's on my country roads and that is not what I want.

In many ways he behaves superbly for French life. He will sit by a lunch table, sleep in the heat, or watch life go by. I hand him to somebody willing and strong, and like a rear gunner shout out: "Dog at 2 o'clock, off lead. One at 4 - both coming up fast.'

With four strong, dog knowledgeable Glasgow friends here last week for a few days, I felt safer out with him in their company, but in truth did not want to take the lead.

We had a few heart-stopping incidents of both the howl and the blood-curdling Afghan tantrum which involves screaming and flinging himself on to the pavement.

One afternoon, it was too hot and we left him in the kitchen/dining room, his usual spot, where he no longer soils or rips up the books during the night.

We returned to find him lying, awaiting us in the middle of the drive. God knows how long he'd been out and where he'd been.

There was mess inside but until I climbed the miller's stairs to study and first floor bedroom I was baffled as to how he'd escaped.

The evidence - more mess - an open door into bedroom, large open windows screened with a now pushed out insect mesh.

He had crawled through and jumped 14ft or so into the pebbled courtyard but there was not a scratch on him nor signs or injury.

César is with me most of the time. He's walked often, he has two training mornings, a day in 'nursery,' and I have to reluctantly admit the problem returns time and time to me.

He has apparent respect for tall, strong men and women. I am small, have never been particularly strong and am relatively slight.

I have learned to shout: "That is not acceptable," when he starts something in the house. Learned to drop my voice to threatening growl.

Indeed by the end of the week my guests thought it great fun to yell at each other over well-wined discussions: "That is not acceptable."

They loved him so much, bless them, they even pushed me away and cleared up after him. Wonderful, wonderful guests.

"He's just a baby," they'd say. "He does like you really. He wants to be with you all the time, that's why he jumped out of the window."

In his own way, perhaps. But he's one hell of a big, bloody baby.

And as one of them reminded me: "And he's French."