The Queen's Corgi

‘Not at all.’ He had to pause to take in a few laboured breaths before he said, ‘It only focuses the mind on what we do take with us.’

I cocked my head, staring at him intently.

‘Consciousness,’ he spluttered. ‘That’s what continues. We should take every opportunity we have in this life, to make sure that it continues in a positive way.’

‘How do you do that?’ Winston was revealing a subject I had never thought much about—but which was assuming a sudden, very great importance.

‘By creating the true causes of a happy mind.’

I listened to this with interest.

‘Can anger lead to contentment?’ he asked.

‘I . . . I don’t think so.’ I didn’t want to disappoint him with my answer.

‘Never,’ he confirmed, his voice weaker than in the past, but still defiant. ‘Nor can jealousy lead to peacefulness, or self-pity to joy. Our main purpose in life is to develop the positive causes of positive mental effects. This is the best way to be happy, not only now, but in the future, when this life ends.’

As so often before, I was struck by Winston’s very great wisdom. He knew the answers to questions that I hadn’t yet even thought of. But as I mulled over his words, something troubled me. I found myself turning my nose away from him.

‘What is it, dear boy?’

‘It’s . . . I don’t suppose it’s anything much.’

‘No time to lose,’ he managed, before succumbing to a violent attack of coughing. ‘Spit it out.’

‘It’s just that, what if there is nothing after this life?’ I felt bad asking such a thing of a corgi who was not only my mentor, but who was himself seriously ill.

‘Yes,’ he nodded sagely. ‘I suppose we all wonder this sometimes. But the energy we possess cannot be destroyed. It may change shape, but it has to go somewhere.’ It was a while before he added, ‘Like trapped wind.’

I was relieved that Winston hadn’t been upset by my indelicate question. ‘Better out than in?’ I repeated his very personal liturgy. ‘Winston’s First Dictum?’

‘Look sharp, dear boy,’ he wheezed, humour lighting up his grizzled features as he spluttered in his basket. ‘Watch how the most enlightened beings choose to spend their time. What do they hold to be important? That should give us a clue about life’s greatest purpose.’

My thoughts turned immediately to Her Majesty and to how I owed her everything. If it hadn’t been for her kind-heartedness and swift resolve, I wouldn’t even be alive, let alone one of her canine representatives. I thought about Charles’s work to reconnect people with the natural world and with each other: how eager he was for people to focus on what is meaningful. And then I reflected on the younger family members with their Royal Foundation. Each one of them, in their own way, spent a great deal of time and energy creating the causes for a happy mind and, from the way Winston explained it, for great future happiness beyond this life.

When my thoughts turned back to myself, however, I felt uncomfortable. ‘I know I’m still quite young,’ I confessed to Winston. ‘Barely out of puppyhood. But I wouldn’t know where to start, you know, creating the true causes of a happy mind. You are a very wise corgi, you understand things. And Margaret . . .’ I glanced in her direction ‘she keeps things organised and shipshape. But I am a corgi with no special abilities. What can I do to help others?’

‘Listen to your heart,’ said Winston. ‘It will become clear. You don’t need any special ability to care for the wellbeing of others. Anyone can practise generosity, giving support to those around us. We all have plenty of opportunities to practise patience. The wonderful paradox is that the more we make the happiness of other beings our priority, the happier we become ourselves.’

I was following him closely as he then very quietly added, ‘But you are wrong to think you don’t have a special ability that you will develop over time. It’s a great relief for me to know that I can pass these particular duties onto you. You will inherit a sacred mantle that has been handed down, from one royal cani

ne to the next, for the past thousand years.’

I looked at Winston, uncomprehending. Special ability? Sacred mantle? What was he on about? Blinking heavily, he observed my bewilderment. ‘Think of my name, dear boy. That may give you a clue.’

‘Winston,’ I replied. We will fight them on the beaches. I remembered very well the story about his willingness to defend his Queen against the onslaught of rottweilers on a beach near Balmoral. ‘And because they thought you liked cigars.’

A rueful smile crossed his face as he remembered. ‘Yes, indeed. But there’s another, more esoteric reason for my name.’

‘Go on,’ I urged him.

‘Long before my namesake, Winston Churchill, became prime minister, he was a British soldier fighting in South Africa. He was captured by the Boers, but managed to escape. In the darkness, he found his way to the only house in a thirty-mile radius that was sympathetic to the British cause. He was guided, dear boy. Intuition. Any other house and he would have been recaptured and shot dead for trying to escape.’

My eyes widened as I listened to this incredible tale.

‘There were other occasions. Once he had to get into his ministerial car. A staff member held the door open for him. But instead, he stepped round to the opposite side of the vehicle and climbed in. During the journey, a bomb exploded on the side where he usually sat, blasting the car onto just two wheels. He told his wife later that an inner voice had directed him where to sit. Again, it was intuition that saved his life.

‘This same ability was useful in helping others. Like the time he ordered all the staff at 10 Downing Street to evacuate the kitchen immediately. A short while later, the place was destroyed by an enemy bomb.’