by David Michie
The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to find myself looking into what could have been a mirror, but was none other than Jasper—my same-litter oldest brother! He now occupied the kennel beside mine, which had been empty when I’d arrived.
‘Never thought I’d see you again, Number Five!’ He extended his tongue between the bars of our cages. My eyelids were so heavy, I had to close them again. As I did, I felt his warm lick and scent—along with a rush of recognition.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked drowsily. I felt a sense of deep peace. I was being greeted by a much-loved being from the distant past. Was this the fabled Rainbow Bridge? Had I crossed to the place they called ‘the other side’?
I was mulling over this dreamily, when Jasper said, ‘You’ve been fixed.’
At the time, the word ‘fixed’ meant nothing to me.
‘Both of us have,’ he continued. ‘Same day. Same vet. What are the chances?’
It took all my energy to blink my eyes open again. ‘Fixed?’ I asked. ‘What’s that?’
‘Fixed? Neutered. Desexed. Castrated. Had your balls chopped off?’
‘Doesn’t sound good,’ I mused.
‘Depends.’ His tone was sanguine. ‘It can get rid of an unwanted distraction.’
Just as I remembered, my brother still had a reassuring air about him. The last time I had seen Jasper, he was at the end of a lead being taken to the park by Mrs Grimsley. I also remembered the special bond that had grown up between us in those final few days we’d spent together. I recalled how it had been Jasper, more than anyone, who had taken my mind off the constant threat of the shed. His amiable presence had been deeply reassuring then, just as it was now that we were both older.
After a while, he cocked his head and focused on me with a mischievous expression. ‘Was it something in particular that brought you here, Number Five? Misbehaving at home?’
Perhaps it was the anaesthetic that blurred my short-term memory. ‘Oh, no,’ I told him, with sleepy confidence. ‘Very well-behaved.’
‘You sure?’ He seemed unconvinced. ‘You haven’t been jumping on other dogs? Dry-humping anyone?’
Oh! No sooner had he mentioned it, the image of the drawing room at Highgrove came to mind. The Prince of Wales’ visitor with the tempting little vixen beside him on the sofa. The regrettable incident. Charles’ pointed arm and red face and my disgraced retreat. So that was why I had been taken to the vet!
But how did Jasper know?
‘Humans don’t like it,’ he continued. ‘Especially the posh ones like yours.’
Starting to feel more properly awake, I wondered how he seemed to know so much about me. ‘Why are you so perky?’
‘I’ve had half an hour longer in recovery than you. You’ll also be wide awake soon.’ He shifted his body to one side. ‘If somewhat tender.’
Suddenly his ears pricked and his eyes were bright with interest. ‘So tell me, are you really the Queen’s favourite corgi?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I told him. ‘There’s also Winston and Margaret.’
‘Do you live at Buckingham Palace?’
‘Part of the time.’
I could tell that he wanted to know more—but I had questions of my own. ‘How do you know about me?
‘It’s all over the Kennel Club!’ he said. ‘Ever since you joined the royal family, the Grimsleys haven’t stopped talking about it. Desdemona is a show corgi who belongs to my family’s cousins. She comes back from meetings full of stories.’
‘Like?’
‘Like how the Grimsleys now transport their corgis in red and gold carriers, put them in red and gold collars and show them with red and gold leashes. How Mrs Grimsley wears gloves and hats like the Queen and, when they arrive at Kennel Club meetings, she waves at people like she’s in the royal carriage on her way to Westminster Abbey. They’ve become very hoity-toity,’ said Jasper, ‘since they got the Royal Warrant.’
Still feeling somewhat woozy, I wondered if I’d heard him correctly. ‘Warrant?’
‘Desdemona says they have the coat of arms plastered all over the place. They even have a car pennant.’
‘But . . . there is no warrant,’ I told him.
‘What?’ Despite his post-operative state, Jasper pushed himself up on his front legs in surprise.
‘And they’ll never get one.’
‘You sure?’ He was scandalised and his large, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth.
‘They never knowingly supplied the royal family with anything. In fact, they demanded total secrecy.’
I observed the bewilderment on Jasper’s face before saying, ‘Let me tell you the story.’
You know better than anyone, my fellow subject, that the tale of what happened that fateful afternoon in Slough was not an edifying one. But being able to explain the whole thing to my brother came as a curiously unexpected relief. Of course the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting knew what had happened, as did Her Majesty, in summary version. My fellow royal corgis had also heard the exchanges between Tara and Sophia. But none of them really knew what it was like to live with the Grimsleys—not like Jasper. We had been through the same puppyhood together. So it was wonderfully cathartic to share the story of those final few hours in Slough and my subsequent journey to Windsor.
Jasper understood. He got it. He was also scandalised by the Grimsleys’ claims. Within weeks, he assured me, every dog at the Kennel Club would know the truth about the matter, even if none of the humans did—at least, not yet.
Then he told me about his own adoptive family. How Ronnie Bowers, a ten-year-old boy who had pleaded with his parents for months to have a dog, was the best companion a corgi could possibly have, and that they went for long rambles in the countryside. How Mrs Bowers’ sister, being a corgi enthusiast and owner of Desdemona, had connected the family with the Grimsleys. Apart from being a distant and prize-winning relative, Desdemona was also a conduit of family news. Through her, Jasper had heard that our mother, still living under the kitchen sink, was heavily pregnant with another litter of pups. Tarquin, the long-time alpha male of the household, was suffering from a touch of rheumatism. Meanwhile, an American heiress had made an offer to buy Annabelle.
As Jasper passed on news of all the beings, both corgi and human, who had been my whole world in the early days, the feeling of connection I had to him grew even stronger. Even the way he called me ‘Number Five’ was delightfully nostalgic.
‘You know, Jasper,’ I told him through the cage bars, ‘I never had the chance to say thank you for all you did for me back in Slough.’
‘Didn’t do anything.’ He seemed genuinely mystified.
‘You cheered me up. It was a scary time for me, you know, with the shed.’
‘We’ll never know what happens in there.’ Even now, he was a determined optimist.
‘No corgi ever came back,’ I reminded him.
‘No.’ He readjusted his hindquarters somewhat gingerly. ‘But things turned out alright for you in the end, didn’t they?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
‘You won’t want to be seen with the likes of me anymore.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You, the Queen’s corgi. Me, inescapably middle class.’
I was suddenly reminded of what Charles’ visitor had said so recently in the drawing room at Highgrove. ‘Just a few days ago a visitor was saying how, by making positive reconnections, especially with those who’ve helped us in the past, we can find purpose and wellbeing. How wealth and status become irrelevant.’
‘Who was the visitor?’
‘Don’t know.’
Brown eyes gleaming, Jasper could tell I wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. He stretched his paw between the bars and pressed mine.
‘Actually, it was the one whose leg I . . .’
He grinned widely. ‘An Earl or a Duke or some such?’
‘Could be. But the family don’t just welcome people with pedigrees. They entertain all
sorts. Even bitzers. I still don’t know who that person was. Do you think it’s important?’
‘Who knows?’ He looked away.
I knew that gesture. It was Jasper’s way of avoiding a hurtful truth.
So it did matter. But who was the mild-mannered man with the cerebral air—and the fluffy white temptress? And why now was the thought of her suddenly so devoid of temptation? And was this how it was going to be for the rest of my life?
Distracting me from my thoughts, Jasper said, ‘You still haven’t told me the most important thing, Number Five?’
‘Which is?’
‘Your name. What does the Queen call you?’
‘Nothing at the moment. She didn’t want to rush into things. They’re waiting for something to suggest itself. Some particular event.’
Jasper’s mouth broke open and his stump wagged.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You know what that event is going to be, don’t you?’
It took me a moment to catch on. ‘Surely not!’
‘You said the other two are called Margaret and Winston. Hmm. Which head of state is a notorious philanderer?’
‘That’s not the way it works.’ I knew it was only brotherly teasing, but I just couldn’t help rising to the bait.
‘I think you might find yourself called . . .’
‘Her Majesty likes to find the good in people,’ I interrupted.
‘Lucky for you!’ Jasper’s eyes twinkled.
Everything was business as usual when I returned to Windsor in the back of Tara’s car. The royal family and their household staff were busy preparing for a banquet that evening in honour of the Czech president. Margaret, especially vigilant on such occasions, trotted through the corridors with an air of great busyness. But Winston, having noted my absence, took one look at me and instantly deduced what had happened.
‘Ah, the snip,’ he said, in a sympathetic tone. ‘I remember it well.’
‘You do?’
‘Many moons ago.’
‘And how was it afterwards?’
‘No discomfort at all after a couple of days.’
‘I mean, not having balls?’
Winston paused to consider this for a while. ‘Quieter, dear boy. Calmer waters.’
‘Your feeling of corgi-hood wasn’t destroyed?’ With Winston, I knew I could ask such questions.
‘Lord, no!’ He glanced at me, concerned that I should even be thinking such a thing. ‘Wasn’t it Sophocles,’ he mused, ‘who said that freedom from libido was like escaping from bondage to a madman?’
‘Sophocles?’ I asked, casting my mind back to the stables at Sandringham. ‘One of the Queen’s geldings?’
‘Greek philosopher,’ replied Winston. ‘Apart from that thought, I know nothing about him. But it’s a useful one, no?’
In the days that followed, the wound from my surgery healed and I discovered myself to be much the same corgi as I had been before. Although one thing continued to bother me—the identity of the man whose leg I had mounted. It hadn’t been my proudest moment. In fact, it was probably my least proud moment as a royal corgi. No reference had been made to it in my presence, but if Charles had said anything to the Queen, it didn’t seem to have changed her affectionate manner towards me. All the same, I couldn’t help wondering.
When I asked Margaret if she knew the identity of Charles’s guest, she claimed to have been far too busy defending the estate from the predations of rabbits to notice such a thing. Winston claimed age and forgetfulness. I had thought it would remain one of life’s great mysteries unless, of course, the same man made a return visit.
And then, one day all three of us were in the staff kitchen, having just eaten dinner, when the man’s face appeared on TV news. ‘That’s him!’ I told Winston.
‘Who?’
‘Charles’ visitor.’
There were the ascetic features, the receding fair hair and the playful expression in his eyes.
‘Ah, yes,’ nodded Winston in recognition.
Perhaps it was my feeling of warm contentment with a tummy full of food or the fact that I’d spent most of that afternoon curled up with Winston at Her Majesty’s feet, cocooned in a state of safe wellbeing? Whatever the reason, I felt the impulse to confess. ‘He was the one whose leg I jumped on,’ I told Winston. ‘Before being fixed.’
He regarded me closely.
‘I think it was what I did that led to me being, you know . . .’ I knew I was rambling, ‘sent to the vet.’
‘You’re serious?’ There was merriment in his aged eyes. He jerked his head towards the TV. ‘Justin?’
‘Who’s Justin?’
Winston never had to tell me, my fellow subject. I discovered for myself just seconds later when the scene changed to show Charles’ visitor inside a cathedral wearing very different attire—golden robes and a gold-coloured hat. He was carrying a staff with an elaborate gold handle. Organ music blasted triumphantly as the newsreader said, ‘The Archbishop of Canterbury announced last week . . .’
When I looked back at Winston his mouth was open in a broad smile. ‘That’s a first for a royal corgi,’ he told me, the amusement of it so great that he succumbed to a fit of snorting. ‘I think you have a great career ahead of you, dear boy,’ he told me, when he had fully recovered. ‘Just not in the Church of England!’
My embarrassing encounter with the Archbishop of Canterbury couldn’t have been further from my mind when, several weeks later, Her Majesty and the Prince of Wales made a private visit to a longstanding family friend at his farm in Gloucestershire. As a royal corgi schooled in discretion—a claim I realise may be hard to accept given the shameful admission of this chapter—I can’t reveal the identity of the friend, except to say that he is a peer of the realm with a great interest in pedigree cattle.
After tea that afternoon, the whole party set out to admire a prize-winning dairy bull, which the Lord had only recently acquired. The party included the Queen, Charles, the Lord and his lady, we three royal corgis and the Lord’s dog, Cara. A twelve-year-old golden retriever, Cara spent most of her days indoors and, when she moved, did so slowly on account of being almost completely blind. We had already exchanged warm wet nosed greetings before sniffing one another’s backsides, as canine etiquette dictates.
‘It’s amazing she doesn’t bump into things,’ Charles observed, as she followed us out of the house.
‘Familiarity,’ explained the Lord. ‘She’s been through each barn and paddock on the estate nearly every week for the past twelve years.’
While that was true, Cara’s almost complete lack of vision meant that when we all gathered next to a white palisade fence, unlike everyone else who stopped to observe the great, black bull grazing on the other side, Cara slipped under a cross bar and walked directly into the field, which was usually occupied only by placid heifers.
Cara’s creeping deafness meant that when her master called for her to return, she heard him only faintly. She paused momentarily, turning in our direction, before continuing across the field directly towards where the bull had stopped grazing, eyeing the unwelcome visitor with evident displeasure.
His Lordship shouted out for Cara at the very top of his voice, but this further unsettled the bull.
‘I’ll have to go in,’ he declared urgently, bending to squeeze between the bars of the fence.
‘Are you quite sure?’ Her Majesty asked, in a concerned voice.
‘I’ll try to distract him while we get Cara out.’
Tension mounted as His Lordship, now on the other side of the fence, walked across the field, preparing to take on the bull from a different direction. The bull wasn’t the slightest bit interested. It seemed that a distant human was of far less concern than the approaching dog.
The bull was bending its neck towards the ground, glowering at Cara.
‘Oh, goodness!’ cried Her Ladyship. ‘We know what that means!’
Clambering on the fence, she cried out to Cara w
ith all her might but to no avail. The bull raised its head high before bringing it heavily towards the ground again. A warning most dogs would have heeded. But Cara continued dawdling towards him.
Suddenly I felt a rush of those same herding instincts that had caused me round up the ducks in Buckingham Palace Gardens. In a trice, I was under the horizontal bar of the palisade fence and scampering towards Cara. A chorus of voices followed. The Queen sounded anxious; Charles imploring. I ignored them all, driven not only by instinct, but also remembering in that moment what the Archbishop had said about interdependence and being willing to help others. Was I not doing the right thing? I continued steadily towards Cara.
Seeing a second canine intrude into its paddock, the bull grew livid. It raised and lowered its head more vigorously than before. It raised its front, right hoof and began scuffing. As I caught up with Cara, it bellowed for the first time.
Hearing the bloodcurdling sound so unexpectedly close, Cara froze. Moments later I was next to her. She felt me touch her now trembling leg with my snout to quickly re-establish a connection.
For what felt like the longest time there was a tense stand-off, the bull regarding the two of us with frozen fury. His Lordship, having approached from another angle, halted in his tracks. I guided Cara with my nose back in the direction of the small group of people and corgis watching from the other side of the field.
I led the retreat slowly, quietly. Not wishing to provoke the bull with precipitous action, I nuzzled Cara at a deliberate pace away from the great beast. From the corner of my eye, I saw His Lordship do much the same thing, taking steady steps backwards.
As soon as we were at a safer distance, I picked up the pace. ‘Close call,’ I barked as we headed back to the white palisades.
‘How far away was the bull?’ yapped Cara.
‘I could see the veins of its eyes,’ said I, with only the slightest touch of melodrama!
There was huge relief and many warm words spoken on our return.
‘What a brave little chap!’ Her Ladyship was effusive in her thanks, patting me warmly.
‘He’s only new to the household, but he’s already making his mark,’ agreed the Queen.