The Queen's Corgi

‘Genius!’ congratulated Harry. Then, responding to the bafflement of the older royals, ‘We offer the media a story about the royal corgis. Videos and photos. A few words about their personalities. Then they can skedaddle for the summer, leaving us in peace.’

William raised an eyebrow. ‘Worth a try.’

‘We might even get one of the corgis to say something meaningful,’ joked Harry, trying to win his father around.

‘I’m sure Winston would have a great deal to say, if he didn’t get sidetracked,’ replied Charles drolly.

Harry pulled a face and, in a stage whisper, said, ‘Vol-au-vents!’

The family laughed.

‘You can forget Margaret,’ said Anne. ‘Given half a chance she’d leave them all bleeding at the ankles.’

At this point Her Majesty, who had yet to comment on the idea, observed, ‘It would have to be Nelson. He has always been the most diplomatic of the corgis.’

Realising that my attempt to coax a scone out of Duchess Kate was futile—she was not going to do so in front of the Queen—I dropped to the floor and made my way over to Her Majesty.

‘Perhaps you could say something meaningful on our behalf? Something about purpose?’ the Queen enquired looking directly at me.

‘After the life he’s led,’ observed Kate, ‘he could write a whole book.’

‘Splendid idea,’ the Queen replied, smiling. ‘The Queen’s Corgi! One would be most interested to read it.’

And so, in a metaphorical sense, the ball was thrown.

Mulling over the conversation in the glorious days that followed, I began to realise just how true Kate’s observation was. It was a rare week when I didn’t come nose to ankle—if not snout to groin—with the most famous people in showbiz, arts, sports and spirituality. There were few of the world’s most pre-eminent politicians, pop stars or philosophers who weren’t, at some point, ushered into the royal presence. I had sniffed them all, even peed on a few, but let’s not spoil this first chapter by bringing dog-eating despots into it.

Not only had I met a richly varied and colourful range of human beings, along with a great many bores, I had also been witness to extraordinary encounters that most people will never see. I had eavesdropped on intriguing insights from the highest-level advisers, the best of the best, with whom Her Majesty consults.

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bsp; What’s more, it struck me that the never-ending flow of TV and press coverage, films and books about the royal family had one singular thing in common—they were all from a human perspective. Where was the dog’s-eye view? The under-the-table account? What people discovered about the Queen, from the perspective of her most diplomatic of Pembroke Welsh Corgis would, I had no doubt, prove refreshingly different.

So here we are, you and me embarking on this journey together. One filled with intriguing aromas, wagging tail stumps and something else I am supposed to remember. What was it again? Ah, yes—purpose!

What’s the point of it all, people sometimes ask? The crowns and castles. The pomp and circumstance. Why bother? Who cares? How can the royal family possibly add to the sum of human happiness—and, let’s not forget, canine, feline and other -ine happiness too?

Perhaps the answers to some of those questions will be revealed in the pages that follow. Perhaps not. But of one thing I am sure, my fellow subject: it is not by chance that you hold this book in your hands.

CHAPTER 1

From my earliest days, I was aware of a place called ‘the shed’. To begin with, I had no idea where it was. But on the very rare occasions when the Grimsleys paid me any attention, ‘the shed’ was invoked. And even as a puppy only a few weeks old, I knew instinctively that it was a place where terrible things happened.

I was born into the most humble of circumstances, under the kitchen sink in a cramped terraced house in Slough. The youngest in a litter of five pups, and very much smaller than the others, I soon found myself competing for space and attention—not only with my immediate brothers and sisters, who shared a sack in the carcass of what used to be a kitchen cupboard, but also with two older and sturdier litters belonging to other mothers in the house. There were over twenty of us in all.

It was not an even competition. My size counted against me, as did my right ear which, instead of standing, flopped. Desperate for the same affection that the Grimsleys bestowed on the other pups, it seemed that my dysfunctional ear rendered me unlovable.

In the rough and ready chaos of discarded pizza boxes and crushed cans of Fosters beer, dirty laundry and the ever-present, pungent aroma of kipper, the house was completely given over to corgis. We were everywhere: under the kitchen bench, where cupboard doors had been removed to create kennels; nesting behind sitting room sofas; suckling and scratching under the Grimsleys’ bed.

On the rare occasion I came to the attention of Mrs Grimsley, she’d jab her cigarette towards me in distaste. ‘Still not standing,’ she’d say with a sigh, exhaling a stream of acrid smoke. Mr Grimsley, a very large man in worn, denim overalls with watery blue eyes, would stare at me in slack-jawed silence.

‘You’re going to have to take it down the shed,’ Mrs Grimsley would instruct.

‘Give it time,’ Mr Grimsley might say. ‘Perhaps he’s a late bloomer.’

‘That’s always been your problem, Reg.’ Mrs Grimsley’s voice was brittle. ‘Too soft. Waste of Kibbles, that one.’

None of the corgis knew exactly what happened in the shed. Other dogs were said to have been taken there in the past—all of them stunted in some way. The only thing known for certain was that once a corgi went to the shed, it was never seen again.