The Queen's Corgi

While Margaret inspected the forest floor, I returned to the group, wagging my stump.

‘I suppose even Nelson doesn’t come into nature, so much as out of it,’ said Harry, bending to pat me.

The other two looked at me for a while before William commented, ‘I think our little friend is missing Winston.’

‘As are we all,’ agreed Charles after a while.

I felt less alone when he said this and, walking over to him, I nuzzled his ankle with my nose.

‘He was a remarkable little chap, Winston,’ said Charles. ‘And I have a feeling that Nelson here is going to be remarkable too.’

Aware that others in the family were feeling Winston’s loss may have deepened my own moments of melancholy, had it not been for a piece of wisdom, which was as entirely unexpected as it was life-changing.

Several evenings later, I joined Her Majesty as she took a brief stroll outside, before retiring for the night. We had had a quiet and uneventful evening after an equally quiet and uneventful day. Far from the usual busyness of royal life, we had spent most of our time relaxing together—just the family. For that very reason, perhaps, Winston’s absence could not have been more strongly felt.

Standing on the lawn, the Queen’s eyes were drawn to the satin sky which, in this remote part of her realm, was utterly dark, providing the perfect backdrop for every constellation to twinkle with unlikely radiance, and for a perfectly full moon, which lit the landscape in ethereal silver.

The Queen stood, taking everything in for a few moments before she turned to look at me. ‘We all miss dear Winston,’ she said, as though summarising my own sentiments for much of the past few days. ‘But wherever he is, I have no doubt that his wisdom and cheerfulness will be serving him very well.’ I took a few steps towards her. ‘In the meantime, you and I have to make the most of our own precious lives. When we go back to England, I expect that in due course we will be joined by another corgi. Perhaps several others.’

There had been talk of this between Her Majesty and Lady Tara, so the idea didn’t come as a complete surprise. I immediately found myself wondering if any of the new royal corgis would be as wise and companionable as Winston. I decided, only moments later, that they almost certainly would not.

‘There will never be another Winston,’ the Queen continued. ‘Nor should we try to recreate the past. Instead, this is your opportunity to lead our newcomers in the ways and rituals of royal life, to share the wisdom that Winston shared with you.’

I leaned against her leg. It was an extraordinary idea that I should be like Winston. And who was I to try?

‘We never feel ready,’ she continued, seemingly able to read my thoughts. ‘I was only 25 when I was crowned. Do you think I felt fully prepared? Somehow, with support from others, we work things out. Anyway, little one . . .’ she leaned down to pat my neck

, ‘you have come far. You already know more than most about purpose.’

As the Queen and I shared that moonlit Scottish night, I contemplated what she had just said. In my earliest days in the royal household and directly at the feet of Her Majesty, I had learned the importance of not being preoccupied by appearances. Just because someone had a floppy ear—or wanted to become a wildlife photographer instead of an investment banker—didn’t render him unlovable or deserving only of a one-way trip to the shed.

From Her Majesty’s horse trainers, I had heard how impulse control is critical, if we are to cultivate the habits of success. Only when we are able to delay gratification can we hope to fulfil our most heartfelt wishes or our highest purpose.

From the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose leg had been such an embarrassing provocation, I had come to realise that the extrinsic trappings of affluence are less important to our happiness than the intrinsic things—like the communities we live in, the people that care about us and the activities that connect us to others.

The positive dog trainer had revealed the importance not only of consistency, but also of being authentic. Self-doubt and other inner battles may be so much a part of us that they have become part of our physical being; but we can learn to let go of them. There is no need to be permanently defined by our past.

From Michael I had come to understand how we can only experience the most transcendent states of consciousness by embarking on an inner journey. I learnt to appreciate that we all have the opportunity to practise alchemy: to turn the base metal of our lives into pure gold. I now know that the material world is much less solid than it appears, because it is also energy—and that energy is none other than our own consciousness.

Winston had been the repository of a great many insights: how young people were the best source of canapés at any royal event; how hiding things in plain sight was remarkably effective—everyone being so caught up in their own thoughts that they hardly noticed. It was Winston who had shown me the difference between merely knowing something and having that knowledge change one’s behaviour—at which point it matured into wisdom. Most profoundly, he had been the one to make clear that we shouldn’t shy away from thoughts about death—quite the opposite. It was very important to keep focused on what we take with us—not jewels and trinkets, but our state of mind: cultivating the true causes of a happy mind being something we energise by giving happiness to others.

And how would I ever forget Winston’s First Dictum: better out than in?

As for the Queen, she was a living, breathing example that a fulfilled and purposeful life eventuates when we use whatever abilities we have for the greater good. We should do small things with great love. And, only moments ago, I had learnt from her that it’s unwise to wait until we’re completely ready—because we may never be.

I remembered my conversation with Winston, when he’d told me he was handing down his particular duties: a sacred mantle that had been passed from one royal canine to the next for the past thousand years. And I recalled what he’d said, just moments before his death, about handing over the bones to me. Now the Queen herself was urging me to take on his role.

From very close by came the hooting of an owl in an otherworldly invocation, before the bird revealed itself for just a few moments, diving from a nearby fir tree, gliding across the lawn and into the woods. The rare sighting made this moment with Her Majesty feel even more mysterious and special.

The Queen looked down at me. ‘The sun, the moon and the truth cannot be hidden. How fortunate for us all, Nelson, that you came to our family. Everything for a reason.’

I met her gaze with deep adoration, my stump wagging appreciatively. How else could I show her that was exactly how I felt too?

The Braemar Gathering, held on the first Saturday of September, has been a uniquely Scottish tradition for many hundreds of years and one attended by the British monarch for well over a century. Scottish sports like tossing the caber and putting the stone were part of the occasion. The festivities also included Highland dancing and piping events.

The informality of the gathering makes it an occasion suitable for royal corgis to attend. So one Saturday morning, Margaret and I found ourselves in the back of a Range Rover with Her Majesty, heading to nearby Braemar. As was often the case, Her Majesty’s private secretary, Julian, occupied the passenger seat. He ran through the day’s events as we made our way through the glorious Scottish countryside. I was far more interested in the passing scenery than in VIPs and protocols, so I paid very little attention to what he was saying, until he mentioned St George’s School.

I had forgotten about how Her Majesty had asked that the school be included in the Braemar Gathering, following on from the bullying incident at Buckingham Palace. But it was all coming back to me—and I was now most curious to watch St George’s School bagpipe band, under Jenkins’s leadership.