The Queen's Corgi

It was the first time I had heard any of these stories. As I took them in, I wondered how they tied in with the reason for Winston’s name and with what he had said to me.

‘That’s amazing, Winston!’ I said. ‘Do you also have intuition?’

‘Let’s just say that I’m sensitive,’ he intoned this last word with great deliberation. ‘As are you.’

‘Me?!’ In that moment, the only images that sprang to mind were of the embarrassing variety. Knowing my story as intimately as you do, my fellow subject, I’m sure there’s no need for me to recite that litany of shame yet again.

‘You don’t think you came into this family by chance?’ he challenged. He seemed to be suggesting a level of action behind my rescue from the Grimsleys—a subject I’d never even thought about, but which had my mind whirring.

‘This intuition—being sensitive,’ I pressed him. ‘How do you know I have it?’

Instead of replying, Winston succumbed to an attack of coughing, his whole body so wracked that the Queen got up from the Scrabble board and came over to the basket to reassure him. It took the longest time for him to recover, the coughing subsiding to a deep gasping, before he was finally able to breathe more easily. I turned, leaving him so that he could slip into much-needed rest. But despite the coughing spasm, he hadn’t forgotten my question. ‘All in good time, dear boy’ he whispered, closing his eyes. ‘We will speak before I go. But never forget: you are a divine creation of energy and consciousness. Understand this and you will know what endures after this life ends.’

Winston’s illness had a profound effect and not only on me. He became the focus of the whole royal household, from the Queen down to the most junior footman—his every action monitored and the subject of discussion. Everything he ate . . . or didn’t. His every lap of water. A short walk in the garden was now considered the most felicitous of events, suggesting that he wouldn’t be leaving us just yet.

For the truth was that we had all come to realise that he would be leaving. Gone was all talk of a recovery. Instead, when Dr. Munthe made his now less frequent visits, all talk was of keeping Winston as comfortable as possible, increasing his pain medication to whatever was needed.

For increasing periods of time, Winston slept. When he did wake up, he’d slip in and out of normal consciousness and everyone would watch him with deep concern, because the coughing spells had become lengthier and more violent than ever. At the end of each one, he seemed close to drowning, because he was so short of breath. There were moments of horror, when we’d all watch him struggle to take in air, with his increasingly frail body shuddering with the effort. Over the days, he became less and less himself.

I had had plenty of time to reflect on our fireside conversation. In particular, Winston’s observation about how the most enlightened people in our community focus on cultivating positive qualities of mind, rather than simply on material wellbeing. The more audiences with Her Majesty on which I eavesdropped, the more I became convinced that this was true. The Queen herself was constantly emphasising the importance of inner qualities rather than outer trappings. Although I hadn’t fully grasped why, I now began to understand: those same qualities were the true causes of happiness in life. And if what Winston said about consciousness was true, they would be the causes of happiness in the future too.

Little by little, it dawned on me that there was a purpose to life. I started to appreciate that we had the chance to use this precious existence to develop our most altruistic motives and compassionate instincts—to be the best that we could be!

As for that other part of the conversation, where Winston seemed to be saying I had some special ability, I put it down to the drugs. Nothing otherworldly had ever happened to me, apart from that one encounter with Queen Elizabeth I . . . and that hadn’t been in the least bit spooky. Even at the time of that encounter, I had known there was something different about the presence of the first Queen Elizabeth compared to the second. But it hadn’t felt as I imagined a psychic encounter would feel. There had been nothing supernatural about it. Neither the Queen nor I had left the royal library feeling in the least bit unnerved.

There can come a time, witnessing the decline of a loved one, when the peace of physical death starts to seem preferable to the torture of continued living. Winston spent most of each day asleep—the effect of the heavy medication Dr. Munthe had prescribed for maximum comfort. During his rare moments of wakefulness, we all hoped he wouldn’t succumb to an especially violent spasm of coughing. Following each of these, we’d witness his agonising struggle for breath. One day, we all knew he would no longer have the fight in him to survive.

It was late one afternoon in the Queen’s private sitting room when he surfaced from the deep sleep in which he’d spent all morning. Her Majesty was downstairs giving an official audience and Margaret had accompanied her. So it was just the two of us in the soft, lamplit quietude. With the benefit of hindsight, I realised that this was just how Winston had planned it.

I looked up as I saw him lift his head in his basket. This action alone took all his energy. His face was now gaunt, with his once-sleek coat lying lank. When he looked at me, there was still that spark of humour in his brown eyes.

‘It’s time,’ he said simply.

‘Oh, Winston!’

‘For the best,’ he gasped.

It took all my strength to retain my composure. ‘You have been the most inspiring and wonderful mentor a corgi could ever have. I can never repay your kindness.’

Winston wheezed, before managing: ‘I’m handing the bones over to you.’

‘Yes.’ I chose to agree with whatever would help him remain at peace.

After a period of laboured breathing he continued, ‘Her Majesty’s sensitive canine.’

‘Well, I suppose I did see Elizabeth the First,’ I said, somewhat surprised that he had returned to this unlikely subject.

‘And the others.’

I cocked my head. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I didn’t want to unsettle him.

He closed his eyes heavily and his head slumped in the basket. His breathing was slow but regular and I thought he must have drifted off to sleep. But after some time had passed he murmured, ‘The soldier on the stairs.’

I recalled the fig

ure in chain mail, who seldom seemed to move. How I’d been struck by the way that other members of the household paid him so little attention. ‘You mean he’s . . .’

‘Yes. But not the main one.’