The Queen's Corgi

‘How far away was the bull?’ yapped Cara.

‘I could see the veins of its eyes,’ said I, with only the slightest touch of melodrama!

There was huge relief and many warm words spoken on our return.

‘What a brave little chap!’ Her Ladyship was effusive in her thanks, patting me warmly.

‘He’s only new to the household, but he’s already making his mark,’ agreed the Queen.

Margaret, to her credit, greeted me back like a triumphant general, home from protecting the realm on some distant island.

Winston wagged his stump with pride. ‘You fought them in the fields!’ he said.

‘What an amazing pup!’ exclaimed His Lordship, when he’d returned to the group. Crouching down, he put both my front paws on his thigh and proceeded to give me a vigorous, two-handed rubbing.

‘He doesn’t have a name yet,’ said Her Majesty. ‘We have been waiting for something to suggest itself.’

‘Well, Your Majesty, I think something just has! Heaven knows what could have happened to Cara in there, if he hadn’t gone to her rescue.’

The aged retriever was milling through everyone’s legs, wagging her feathery tail gratefully.

‘He’s a brave diplomat!’ Her Ladyship enthused.

‘So it seems,’ the Queen was patting me and was clearly delighted.

‘And very friendly,’ His Lordship continued.

‘If sometimes a little over familiar,’ contributed the Prince of Wales with a chuckle.

The Queen met his eye with a cautioning glance. But as their eyes met, they seemed to hold for a moment.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Charles.

‘About a name?’ confirmed Her Majesty, her smile broadening.

He nodded. ‘I think we have it!’ he beamed. Then glancing at the gathered throng, ‘My Lord and Lady, Cara, Winston and Margaret, I give you the newest member of the royal family—Nelson!’

‘Horatio?’ queried His Lordship.

At the same time, Her Ladyship chimed in with, ‘Mandela?’

Everyone turned to Her Majesty for a definitive answer.

‘Well,’ she said, after considering this for a moment. ‘Couldn’t it be a bit of both?’

CHAPTER 5

News that the Queen’s littlest corgi now had a name began to circulate through the royal residences. And along with the name, the story behind it was told. My rescue of Cara and how I’d herded her away from danger was repeated and embellished. Everyone from Her Majesty’s private secretary to security’s German shepherds were made aware of my finest hour. I was no longer an unnamed newcomer, one whose qualities—apart from a floppy ear—had yet to be discerned. Instead, I was becoming known as a corgi of courage and friendliness.

Still getting used to the novelty of having my own name, in those first few days after the visit to his Lordship, I felt a thrill of satisfaction every time I was summoned. The Prince of Wales, in that deliberate voice of his, would linger over the first syllable of my name. William and Harry would beckon me in brisk, playful tones. As for the Queen, from the very first time she called me, she did so in two distinctive tones, the second syllable of my name very much higher than the first: ‘Nel-son!’

For the first time in my life, I truly belonged.

Not that it was allowed to go to my head. There were still occasional wisecracks about the Archbishop of Canterbury’s leg when we were taken on walks by security. Any reference to the Church of England, cathedrals or priests might provoke a sideways glance in my direction from Margaret. I still remembered my moment of shame with a heavy heart, even though, as a neutered corgi, the notion of wanting to mount any person’s leg—or, indeed, any poodle—was now entirely academic.

Even my rescue of Cara was soon placed well and truly into context. A couple of weeks after the visit to his Lordship, we three corgis found ourselves accompanying Her Majesty on a brief visit to an agricultural centre in Berkshire. It was a visit we had known about for weeks in advance and had been awaiting with the keenest curiosity. But nothing quite prepared us for the spectacle we were about to see.

All three of us were used to the idea of professional canines. Indeed, we regarded ourselves as being in service to the Queen. What was Winston, if not a font of wisdom and forbearance—though not always in the case of canapés? Meantime, a single raised lip of Margaret’s was all it now needed for a potential garden party pilferer to think better of filling their pockets with cucumber sandwiches or dainty items from the patisserie. Still a pup, I was evolving my own brand of affectionate diplomacy.