The Queen's Corgi

Instruction of that variety had been a haphazard affair at the Grimsleys. With three litters of pups in one small home, accidents were frequent. We puppies were still emerging into the world; supervision was light and, in the chaos of the house, indiscretions were overlooked or even went unnoticed.

Not so at Buckingham Palace. Or at any of the royal residences, come to that. I shudder to remember how, on my very first morning, I relieved myself and produced a rapidly growing puddle on the highly-polished wooden floor directly outside the Queen’s private rooms. On that occasion, security had scooped me up within moments and taken me to the small garden outside the staff scullery downstairs. This was where all such activity was to occur.

Several similar incidents happened over the next few days. On each occasion, one of the staff whisked me outside. I cringe when I remember my behaviour. I suppose as a puppy I didn’t yet have full control of my bodily functions. Nor was I at all clear about what part of the property was the den and what part was not the den at Windsor Castle. Or at Buckingham Palace. Or at Balmoral or Sandringham. It was all so confusing! The only consolation was that my various mishaps hadn’t occurred in the presence of anyone who mattered. By which, of course, I mean the Queen and her family. Or at least, they hadn’t happened yet.

But then came the time that Kate and a very young Prince George were making a visit to his great grandmamma at Windsor. The two were shown into a sitting room, to wait briefly while Her Majesty finished an official engagement. We three corgis offered an enthusiastic welcome, enjoying the lavish affection Kate bestowed on us.

Perhaps it was because I was the newest, and by far the smallest, addition to the household that Kate seemed especially indulgent of me, fondling my ears and rubbing my tummy with gusto. As all three of us corgis scampered about her and George, my excitement quite got the better of me. Suddenly, I was peeing on the carpet. ‘Oh dear, I think someone’s having an accident!’ laughed Kate.

A butler quickly seized me as Winston glanced askance and Margaret looked positively scandalised by my behaviour. I was taken outside to the scullery garden. By the time I was returned to the room a short while later, the Queen and Kate were sitting on a sofa with little George between them. Evidence of my incontinence formed a dark stain on the carpet, but if Her Majesty noticed, she made no mention of it. Nor did her attitude towards me seem to change in any way. Had I got away with it?

It was during those earliest days at Windsor that I met one of the Queen’s most intriguing advisers. His visit wasn’t like the others in Her Majesty’s official calendar, all of which would be confirmed weeks in advance and discussed at the start of every day with her private secretary, Julian. It happened on an ove

rcast morning, when heavy mists veiled the river Thames and much of the castle was cloaked in gloom. It was one of those days in which the momentous events and historic figures of the past seemed invoked, unseen but living presences in this ancient royal castle.

We three corgis were snoozing at Tara’s feet after our morning walk, when Winston raised his head as though in response to a bell. Ears pricked up and head cocked to one side, he was tuning into some sound which was inaudible to me. Turning to Margaret and me he said, ‘Michael’s here,’ before jumping to his feet and making for the door. Because Margaret followed suit, so did I.

‘Do they serve canapés when Michael visits?’ I asked, wanting to demonstrate my evolving knowledge of how things worked around here.

‘Of course not!’ Margaret responded firmly, looking at me as if I were mad even to suggest it.

I realised that she was in one of her ‘difficult’ moods and hastened my pace to catch up with Winston.

‘Who’s Michael?’ I asked.

‘That, dear boy, is a question to which we’d all like to know the answer.’

‘But you’ve met him before?’

‘Many times.’

‘Then you must have some idea?’

Winston snorted, realising that his enigmatic answers were wasted on a pup. ‘You were at this morning’s diary meeting?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Julian mention a visit from Michael?’

‘No.’

‘Does the Queen ever receive unscheduled visitors?’

‘Um . . .’ I thought I knew the correct answer, but I was feeling less than confident after Margaret’s fierce response to my question about canapés.

‘Never!’ Winston provided the answer with a decided ‘ah’ about the second syllable of that word. ‘She does not. She is the Queen. Nobody just drops in to see Her Majesty. Nobody, that is, except Michael.’

‘And you’re sure he’s here?’ I was following Winston down a long corridor.

‘Quite sure.’

‘But, I mean, how do you know?’

‘I’m tuned in,’ said Winston. ‘Just as I expect you will become too, dear boy.’ He seemed to have made some judgement about me and was paying a compliment. I wagged my stump.

Winston continued, ‘We dogs hear sound frequencies that humans cannot.’

‘Really?’ This was news to me. ‘Like magic?’