The Queen's Corgi

‘It’s just . . .’

‘Let go! Move on! Like that woman this afternoon was saying, if you wait till you’re perfect before you accept yourself, you never will.’

I leaned over and nuzzled Winston, licking his neck. Sometimes I was convinced that he was the wisest dog in the world.

I can’t say whether what happened next was deliberate, but the timing seemed significant. Only moments later, a cloud of the most noxious stench rose up to engulf everyone in the room. Charles’ reaction was instant. ‘Winston!’ he spluttered, rising to his feet and flapping his hand across his face to no avail.

‘I think we should go next door for a few moments.’ Her Majesty rose, leading the way with quiet dignity, while the butler produced a cigar lighter from his pocket and unleashed a gas-consuming flame.

Margaret and I both looked at Winston askance.

‘Better out than in,’ he explained.

‘But really!’ Margaret was deeply unimpressed.

‘We all have our flaws,’ he snorted. ‘Embrace them!’

Several months later the Queen paid a visit to the Archbishop of Canterbury at his official residence, Lambeth Palace. It was a Friday afternoon and we were on our way to Windsor. On arrival, Police Detective Lewis took us for a walk in the Archbishop’s garden, while the Queen went inside t

o discuss matters of the church.

It wasn’t a lengthy meeting—barely long enough for the royal corgis to leave our collective mark on the most important trees and shrubs. A vibration from Detective Lewis’ phone in her pocket summoned us to the side door from which Her Majesty would be leaving the building.

It was a perfectly tranquil day as the ancient, wooden door opened to reveal the Queen and Archbishop in quiet conversation. When he looked out and saw the corgis, the Archbishop immediately smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll have to call Mitzy. She will be pleased.’

Moments later the two humans and one poodle emerged. Mitzy skipped over to greet us, barking excitedly and frantically wagging her tail. She had exchanged wet-nosed greetings with all three of us before the Queen and Archbishop joined us, the A of C bending to pat us warmly.

It didn’t escape my notice that neither Mitzy nor the Archbishop had shown a moment’s hesitation in wanting to greet me. Nor was their warmth in any way contrived. It was as if the Highgrove moment had never happened. Or if it were remembered, it seemed to be of no importance at all.

For a while we dogs were allowed to scamper on the lawn, before the time came to get back in the car. Her Majesty and the Archbishop exchanged waves as our car pulled away.

That day’s drive out to Windsor was a time of some reflection. I wondered how it was possible that something of so little importance to others could assume such great significance in my mind. How self-doubt could grow so easily, if left unchecked. I thought how past events could continue to affect us, even if we didn’t realise it, as had been the case for poor Tara.

But at least there were ways to leave the past behind—the advice of the kinesiologist had confirmed that. And in the meantime, recognising that we all have flaws was a vital part of self-acceptance. Being who we are, without pretence, is vital in allowing us to be authentic.

I remembered Winston’s sage advice—Let go—feeling a wave of palpable relief pass through me. And so I did. The only moment that mattered was this one, sitting on the car seat next to the Queen and my fellow corgis on a beautiful Friday afternoon, with England’s green and pleasant land sliding by, as lovely as it ever had been.

Later that afternoon, Her Majesty was being consulted on forward planning by her secretary, Julian.

‘The Braemar Gathering.’ He nodded towards a folder on her lap, containing paperwork. ‘Does that all look in order?’

The Queen glanced down, reading a margin note she’d previously made.

‘Ah yes.’ She nodded. ‘We need to have a word with Huchens.’

Moments later her head of security was in our midst, imposing and formidable.

‘Did you have a chance to enquire about that schoolboy?’

‘Simpson, ma’am; who was being bullied by Jenkins?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I spoke to his mother last week. Jenkins has changed his attitude entirely. He has become Simpson’s greatest protector. Mrs Simpson says her son’s study is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop.’

‘Very good.’

‘In fact, some sort of friendship has struck up between the boys.’