The Queen's Corgi

by David Michie

  Margaret, to her credit, greeted me back like a triumphant general, home from protecting the realm on some distant island.

  Winston wagged his stump with pride. ‘You fought them in the fields!’ he said.

  ‘What an amazing pup!’ exclaimed His Lordship, when he’d returned to the group. Crouching down, he put both my front paws on his thigh and proceeded to give me a vigorous, two-handed rubbing.

  ‘He doesn’t have a name yet,’ said Her Majesty. ‘We have been waiting for something to suggest itself.’

  ‘Well, Your Majesty, I think something just has! Heaven knows what could have happened to Cara in there, if he hadn’t gone to her rescue.’

  The aged retriever was milling through everyone’s legs, wagging her feathery tail gratefully.

  ‘He’s a brave diplomat!’ Her Ladyship enthused.

  ‘So it seems,’ the Queen was patting me and was clearly delighted.

  ‘And very friendly,’ His Lordship continued.

  ‘If sometimes a little over familiar,’ contributed the Prince of Wales with a chuckle.

  The Queen met his eye with a cautioning glance. But as their eyes met, they seemed to hold for a moment.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Charles.

  ‘About a name?’ confirmed Her Majesty, her smile broadening.

  He nodded. ‘I think we have it!’ he beamed. Then glancing at the gathered throng, ‘My Lord and Lady, Cara, Winston and Margaret, I give you the newest member of the royal family—Nelson!’

  ‘Horatio?’ queried His Lordship.

  At the same time, Her Ladyship chimed in with, ‘Mandela?’

  Everyone turned to Her Majesty for a definitive answer.

  ‘Well,’ she said, after considering this for a moment. ‘Couldn’t it be a bit of both?’

  CHAPTER 5

  News that the Queen’s littlest corgi now had a name began to circulate through the royal residences. And along with the name, the story behind it was told. My rescue of Cara and how I’d herded her away from danger was repeated and embellished. Everyone from Her Majesty’s private secretary to security’s German shepherds were made aware of my finest hour. I was no longer an unnamed newcomer, one whose qualities—apart from a floppy ear—had yet to be discerned. Instead, I was becoming known as a corgi of courage and friendliness.

  Still getting used to the novelty of having my own name, in those first few days after the visit to his Lordship, I felt a thrill of satisfaction every time I was summoned. The Prince of Wales, in that deliberate voice of his, would linger over the first syllable of my name. William and Harry would beckon me in brisk, playful tones. As for the Queen, from the very first time she called me, she did so in two distinctive tones, the second syllable of my name very much higher than the first: ‘Nel-son!’

  For the first time in my life, I truly belonged.

  Not that it was allowed to go to my head. There were still occasional wisecracks about the Archbishop of Canterbury’s leg when we were taken on walks by security. Any reference to the Church of England, cathedrals or priests might provoke a sideways glance in my direction from Margaret. I still remembered my moment of shame with a heavy heart, even though, as a neutered corgi, the notion of wanting to mount any person’s leg—or, indeed, any poodle—was now entirely academic.

  Even my rescue of Cara was soon placed well and truly into context. A couple of weeks after the visit to his Lordship, we three corgis found ourselves accompanying Her Majesty on a brief visit to an agricultural centre in Berkshire. It was a visit we had known about for weeks in advance and had been awaiting with the keenest curiosity. But nothing quite prepared us for the spectacle we were about to see.

  All three of us were used to the idea of professional canines. Indeed, we regarded ourselves as being in service to the Queen. What was Winston, if not a font of wisdom and forbearance—though not always in the case of canapés? Meantime, a single raised lip of Margaret’s was all it now needed for a potential garden party pilferer to think better of filling their pockets with cucumber sandwiches or dainty items from the patisserie. Still a pup, I was evolving my own brand of affectionate diplomacy.

  The amateur nature of the royal corgis’ well-meaning efforts, however, became crystal clear on that memorable afternoon. We followed Her Majesty as she emerged from an unmarked police car to be greeted by the tweed-clad organising committee of the English National Sheepdog Trials. The Queen made a point of taking our leashes personally, as she was shown to a dais under a white marquee overlooking large, open fields. There was a murmur of amusement as we three followed, walking obediently to heel, to the centre of the small platform where Her Majesty sat, with several other guests of honour, among a group of about forty people. To her right was a man of aristocratic bearing, introduced to her as the Chairman of the English National Sheepdog Trials. To her left was a dark-haired woman with a broad smile, who needed no introduction at all.

  The Queen watches very little television. Quite apart from a busy calendar of official duties, her evenings are mostly taken up with her family life and circle of close friends. But there are one or two television shows she thoroughly enjoys and which her staff make sure are recorded for the rare occasions when she has time to relax. One of those shows, dealing with problematic canine behaviour, was hosted by none other than the woman beside her, whose hand she shook most warmly. It so happened, that the show was also one known to dogs throughout the world and we corgis, having watched so many of the programs, already felt on the friendliest of terms with the woman. Royal protocol forbids me from disclosing her identity, but let’s just say that she shared her first name with a very long-serving monarch, only a few generations back in the Queen’s family tree. And she is widely recognised for her positive training.

  The sheepdog trials were already well underway by the time we arrived. Although Winston had attended one of these events in his puppyhood, it was a revelation for both Margaret. We watched intently as border collies raced across the fields herding large flocks of sheep this way and that, guiding an ever-changing shape of furry bodies in whichever direction they were asked. On command, they would effortlessly divide small groups of sheep and guide them into separate enclosures, all the while following the instructions relayed to them by shepherds with nothing more than a slight bend of the body or gesture of the arm.

  Within a few minutes, I came to realise that my rescue of poor, blind Cara had been a very modest affair compared to the spectacular manoeuvres I was now observing. And Margaret no doubt also realised that rounding up the occasional, errant trade unionist was small beer compared to the dazzling mastery now on display.

  We watched spellbound. Occasionally a human member of the audience was unable to suppress a cry of encouragement or delight, as his or her sheepdog performed some complex routine. One of the border collies, Flash, was especially mesmerising to watch, being both as swift as his name suggested and smoothly adept at separating groups of sheep. He also seemed to have a developed sense of humour, sometimes springing over the moving bodies of his charges, giving the impression he was on both sides of them at once. Flash also prompted a round of chuckles when he rolled on the ground several times, all the while keeping intense watch on both the sheep and his master. Her Majesty seemed delighted by him and . . . from the warmth of the applause that followed his performance . . . it seemed that he was one of the favourites on the trial circuit.

  As we sat overlooking that field in Berkshire, there seemed something quite inspiring about watching humans and canines working together, an invisible but powerful bond between them, continuing a tradition of working the land together that had been with us since time immemorial.

  During a break in proceedings, Her Majesty stood to ease her legs. The positive dog lady proposed that the royal corgis would benefit from a short stroll—a suggestion to which the Queen readily agreed. ‘I do hope you’ll join us,’ she said. So a short while later, all five of us, flanked by security, were making o
ur way along the perimeter of the paddock.

  ‘I like your TV show very much,’ the Queen told the dog trainer. All three of us were walking to heel, Her Majesty holding our leashes in her right hand. We were deeply curious to tune into this conversation.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you, Your Majesty,’ the other replied, smiling appreciatively.

  ‘You offer sensible advice.’

  ‘I can tell you do not need it,’ she answered, gesturing towards us. ‘When you walked from the car earlier, I could see immediately that you have a good relationship with the corgis.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  I glanced up at the Queen. And was it my imagination, or had she coloured slightly in the cheeks?

  ‘What would you say is the most important element of dog training?’

  ‘Without a doubt, positive reinforcement. If we want to build lasting bonds based on mutual trust and love, we need to embrace what we learn from behavioural science.’

  The Queen listened thoughtfully. ‘That hasn’t always been the approach has it?’

  ‘Unfortunately not!’ The positive trainer was shaking her head. ‘There have been so many myths repeated unquestioningly in the media about how all dogs are like wolves, following pack behaviour. The premise is that they are constantly trying to assert dominance over us. Many people don’t understand that training based on that model is actually hugely damaging. I spend a lot of time rescuing people’s relationships with pets, who have been subjected to dominance and punishment-based trainers. Their methods go completely against positive human-animal bonding.’

  The Queen was nodding. ‘Yes, we know much more about animal behaviour today than we did even ten or twenty years ago.’

  ‘Exactly. We have a better understanding of how dogs experience the world through their senses and how they communicate using body language. By better knowing how their minds work and what emotions they experience, a whole new dimension of possibilities opens up in the way we relate, one species to another.’

  ‘On the subject of body language,’ Her Majesty nodded in the direction of the open fields, ‘very impressive performance by the border collies. It is intriguing how they know what to do, with only the smallest signals from the shepherds.’

  ‘A privilege to watch,’ her companion agreed. ‘Lots of training and positive reinforcement.’

  ‘And consistency?’ proffered the Queen.

  ‘Absolutely! Dogs get very confused by inconsistent messages. Like if one family member lets them jump on the sofa and another one doesn’t. Sometimes it’s even the same person changing their mind, depending on their mood. That leaves a dog bewildered about what is or isn’t acceptable.’

  Her Majesty was following this closely. ‘And consistency also between what we say and what we do.’

  ‘Exactly. Dogs are far more observant than humans when it comes to non-verbal communication. If you say one thing to a dog, while physically indicating something different, chances are the dog will follow the non-verbal direction.’

  ‘The more authentic of the two.’

  They walked a short distance further before the dog lady said, ‘You could probably say that being consistent and authentic are the keys to successful training.’

  ‘Not only that,’ agreed the Queen, pausing for a moment. ‘I believe they are the keys to happiness and purpose in every aspect of our lives.’

  As we were returning to the marquee, I noticed there had been changes in the audience, as owners came and went with their dogs. I was especially pleased to see, at the end of the front row sitting next to a tall, tanned man, none other than Flash. I wouldn’t dream of trying to drag the Queen over towards him, of course. But as soon as she and the dog trainer had settled and the three of us were back under their seats, I made my way surreptitiously under the front row of seats until I reached the end.

  ‘Brilliant performance!’ I told Flash with a wag of the stump.

  He cocked his head modestly, suggesting it had all been in a day’s work.

  ‘Would you like to meet the Queen?’ I felt sure she would like to congratulate him personally.

  Flash obediently looked up at his owner, who glanced at where I had the sheepdog’s leash between my teeth. He gave an amused shrug of consent.

  In my own display of animal husbandry, I padded along in front of the VIPs, still holding Flash’s leash, while he followed a few steps behind. Reaching the centre, I dropped the leash at the feet of the Queen. She exchanged an amused glance with the positive trainer. ‘Thank you for the introduction, Nelson,’ she murmured, before reaching out to Flash. ‘You did very well, young man. A pleasure to watch.’

  She stroked his neck, while Flash wagged his tail appreciatively. Ever watchful of his owner, Flash tilted back his head, glancing along the front row of VIPs. Her Majesty also caught his owner’s eye and nodded with a smile. Then, at some signal which was imperceptible to me, Flash returned to his owner’s side. I made my way under the Queen’s seat.

  ‘Very sociable,’ said the dog trainer, as I disappeared from view.

  ‘Quite the diplomat,’ agreed Her Majesty. ‘Dogs, cats, horses . . . he gets on with them all.’

  I flopped down, my chin resting on my front paws, which were stretched out ahead of me. I noticed that she didn’t mention archbishops!

  It was one of those drizzly, London afternoons when leaden clouds shroud the skyline and your every instinct is to curl up on a rug in front of a palace fire and snooze until dinner. We three royal corgis were doing just that in the office of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Sophia’s desk was unoccupied; she had escorted Her Majesty to a function for Royal Air Force wives in Piccadilly. Tara, meanwhile, was tapping away at her computer, her cool blonde hair, gold earrings and crimson scarf cast in the warm glow of the standard lamp behind her desk.

  Midway through the afternoon, there was a phone call from downstairs announcing she had a visitor. A short while later one of the palace footmen ushered a young woman called Justine into the room.

  ‘Thank you so much for making the time to see me.’ Justine shook her hand firmly. ‘I really feel I could help so many of the others at The Prince’s Trust by providing kinesiology.’

  ‘Well, being fairly ignorant on the subject, I think it could be a good idea. But I need to learn more about it from you first.’

  Margaret and I looked up at the visitor. Mid-twenties, auburn hair like a mane about her shoulders, she looked bright-eyed and enthusiastic, while at the same time conveying an air of authority of someone much older.

  I remembered an exchange between Tara and Sophia, about how a young girl—made homeless by the death of her mother—had been sponsored through her studies by the Trust several years earlier. Not only had she succeeded beyond everyone’s hopes, she had gone on to become something of an ambassador for the Trust, helping others struggling with similar challenges and using her newly-gained knowledge in kinesiology to do so.

  The Board of the Trust had considered engaging Justine on a more formal basis, but having had no experience of kinesiology, they thought someone had better find out more. Tara had been asked to do so.

  ‘Can we do this . . . over here?’ Tara gestured towards where two sofas faced each other across a coffee table next to the window. Justine nodded.

  As the two of them sat down facing each other, I made my way over to welcome Justine and have a good sniff of her ankles. She responded with appreciative patting.

  ‘This is Nelson,’ Tara introduced me. ‘The newest member of the royal household.’

  ‘So cute!’ enthused, Justine. ‘Still very young.’

  ‘About eight months,’ Tara told her. ‘But already making an impression.’

  Justine’s stockings smelt of many flowers—as though she had been running through a field of fragrant and varied blooms. I didn’t think I’d ever encountered such a profusion of scents on any one person’s clothing. Where had she been?

  ‘Shall I start at the beginning?’ enquired Justine.<
br />
  ‘Please,’ Tara said with a nod.

  ‘Kinesiology is a gentle, but very effective, complementary therapy. Unlike the diagnosis done by a doctor, kinesiology uses muscle monitoring to identify stress patterns in the body.’

  ‘I don’t know how much use I’m going to be to you,’ Tara told her. ‘I’m in very good health.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Justine assured her. ‘I’ll probably confirm that, though kinesiology takes a holistic view: body and mind. Most people come away with some kind of useful insight.’

  Tara sat back on her sofa. I could tell she would need some convincing.

  ‘I wonder whether you’ve come across the concept of muscular resistance.’ As Tara shook her head, Justine continued, ‘It can be a very revealing tool. We may consciously want to achieve something but, if our subconscious mind—our inner programming—is against it, we’re really going to struggle. I see this with a lot of kids through The Prince’s Trust. They want to bring about positive changes in their lives. That’s what they consciously want. But their best intentions are undermined all the time by the things they believe about themselves: I’m not worthy or There’s no point in trying. By identifying these self-sabotaging beliefs, we can get to the root of the problem.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Tara.

  ‘Perhaps I can demonstrate?’ offered Justine.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Please stretch out your arm at shoulder height and resist my pressure to push it down.’

  Tara looked surprised by the request, but did as she was asked. Justine didn’t seem to be exerting great pressure, but it was enough for Tara to have to tense her muscles.

  ‘Now, please just say My name is Tara, while maintaining the same level of pressure.’

  Again, Tara did as she was asked, looking somewhat bemused.

  ‘This time,’ Justine continued her quietly confident demonstration, ‘say My name is Justine.’

  No sooner had Tara uttered the words than her arm slumped downwards. She glanced at Justine in surprise.