The Queen's Corgi

‘By contrast, the inner contentment of eudemonia is more enduring,’ the speaker noted. ‘And that feeling is not diminished by repetition. If anything, the more we keep giving, the more profound our sense of wellbeing.’

I found the visiting expert’s talk very interesting. Enlightening even. I had never heard such ideas expressed in the time I’d been growing up in the Grimsley household. The lives of Mr and Mrs Grimsley, it was plain to see, were given over completely to hedonia. Hardly surprising therefore, that they were often so miserable and that the only solace they seemed to find was an altered state of consciousness courtesy of The Crown.

‘Go for both!’ urged the speaker at his conclusion. ‘Enjoy the pleasures of this world, but don’t neglect your inner wellbeing. Don’t be seduced into believing that there’s some direct connection between the material world and your own feelings of contentment. If wellbeing is what you want—and it’s what we all want—you will only achieve it by (paradoxically) focusing on the wellbeing of others.’

Later that evening, we three corgis retired with the Queen and Philip to a private sitting room, where the royal couple were soon engrossed in books they had recently obtained from the City of Westminster’s travelling library. Our bellies were full—in Winston’s case, with a great many honey mustard cocktail sausages. Coals glowed in the fireplace. A sense of peace pervaded the room. This was to become one of my favourite times in the daily rhythm of palace life, with the activities of the day behind us and the Queen to ourselves.

Three baskets had been laid out to one side of the fireplace, two of them furnished with well-worn, tartan rugs, the third newly installed for me. Following the example of the other corgis, I stepped into ‘my’ basket and lay down, trying to get comfortable. It was snug and protected, with just the right amount of cushioning. I could see both my fellow corgis and our human companions. The room was perfectly cosy. But something was lacking.

Getting out of my basket I made my way towards Winston’s. Watching me, I could tell he knew what I hoped for. As he showed no objection, I climbed in and curled up next to him. The Queen and Phillip exchanged glances, as I felt the warmth of his body next to mine. This was what I needed. The comfort of corgi. ‘Tell me Winston, how did you get your name?’ I asked, sleepily.

‘Ah, dear boy, how we get our names.’ He sighed. ‘One single name can mean so many different things. There are outward meanings and inner, esoteric meanings . . .’

I thought he was going to leave me in a state of deep and continuing mystery. But I really didn’t mind because he’d called me ‘dear boy’, so I was warm with the glow of acceptance. But from the basket next door Margaret said, ‘We royal corgis are all named after national leaders. In Winston’s case, it was his courageous defence of Queen and country that gave him his name.’

‘Well,’ he said pensively, ‘that was part of it.’

‘Do tell!’ I urged him.

‘We were with Her Majesty on a beach near Balmoral,’ he told me, chest rising, ‘minding our own business and enjoying the weather. Suddenly two rottweilers appeared from nowhere and raced towards us. I bared my teeth and went on the attack.’

‘Rottweilers?’ I couldn’t believe he’d take on two huge, powerful dogs with such fearsome reputations. ‘Did you see them off?’

‘Security stepped in,’ he said. ‘But I showed the Queen how far I’d go. I’d fight them on the beaches.’

From the basket next door, Margaret cleared her throat. ‘There’s that other story too,’ she said.

‘Another?’ I wondered if Winston had also pursued German shepherds in the fields; or bared his fangs at dobermans in the streets.

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Margaret was quick to disillusion me. ‘He has a penchant for cigar stubs,’ she said.

‘A misunderstanding,’ insisted Winston. ‘I was trying to get to some pizza. One of the staff had dumped the contents of an ashtray on top of it.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Margaret sounded unconvinced.

‘And you, Margaret?’ I intervened, not wishing a pleasant moment to turn ugly. ‘How did you come to be named?’

‘For my constant vigilance in the service of the Queen,’ she replied snippily.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ chortled Winston. ‘The real story is that she attacked a famous trade union leader at a garden party.’

‘Only a nip to the ankles.’

‘There was a lot of blood.’

‘Well, it was downright theft,’ she snapped. ‘He’d stuffed his overcoat pockets full of apple Danish.’

I imagined the trade union leader, limping across the lawns of Buckingham Palace, his coat pockets filled with contraband pastries and socks drenched in blood; the rottweilers halting in their tracks on the beach; Winston snuffling for pizza in the midst of burnt-out cigars.

‘I wonder what I’ll end up being called,’ I mused.

It was a while before Winston answered, ‘These things aren’t usually rushed.’

‘Nor should they be,’ chimed Margaret.

Winston exhaled sleepily, while I closed my eyes, snuggling up closer.