The Queen's Corgi Read online

  In the tradition of David Michie’s bestselling The Dalai Lama’s Cat series, this charming, poignant and humorous novel about a dog›s life with the royal family packs a deceptively powerful punch, as it offers profound life lessons that will leave the reader transformed at a deeper level.

  Ingrid King, award-winning author of Buckley’s Story: Lessons from a Feline Master Teacher and publisher of The Conscious Cat

  Narrated by a plucky pup of humble beginnings, The Queen’s Corgi offers a delightful dog’s-eye view of the most famous royal residence in the world. It’s a tail-wagging treat to spend some quality time with Her Majesty and her best furry friend—a royal corgi, whose wit and wisdom shine from beginning to end.

  Julia Williams, CANIDAE RPO Blog Editor, www.canidae.com

  Delightfully engaging and with an intriguing mystical flavour, this book not only entertains—it also takes us on a fascinating inner journey. David weaves in wise nuggets of wisdom, which will make you stop, ponder and apply them to your own life. Another glorious book from David Michie!

  Tara Taylor, Intuitive Counsellor, Motivational Speaker and Hay House author of Through Indigo’s Eyes series

  Readers who fell in love with The Dalai Lama’s Cat, the wise and shining feline star of the book series, have new cause for happiness: a charming new ‘rags to royalty’ book by David Michie, featuring a dog as the narrator. Not just any dog, but Nelson—an imperfect but witty corgi (with a large, furry ear for gossip and a nose for misadventure), who winds up as one of the Queen of England’s pack of Corgis with an all-access pass for behind-the-scenes palace life.

  Layla Morgan Wilde, founder and editor of catwisdom101.com and producer of Cat Film Fest at Sea

  The Queen’s Corgi captivates from first page to last, as the adorable puppy escapes death, and is carried into Windsor Castle to begin life as a royal corgi. David Michie’s compelling writing style will keep you turning the pages of this heart-warming book with an understanding of dogs and the mysteries of life. Dog lovers of all ages will fall in love with The Queen’s Corgi. Highly recommended!

  Darlene Arden, Certified Animal Behavior Consultant and author of Small Dogs, Big Hearts: A Guide to Caring for your Little Dog

  After a rough start in life, Nelson, the fictional corgi, gets to live with Queen Elizabeth II, soak in the wisdom of various famous folk and have a winsome yet insightful book written for him by the inimitable David Michie. Talk about one lucky dog!

  Michelle Fabio, writer and blogger at Bleedingespresso

  ALSO BY DAVID MICHIE

  Fiction

  The Dalai Lama’s Cat*

  The Dalai Lama’s Cat and the Art of Purring*

  The Dalai Lama’s Cat and the Power of Meow*

  The Magician of Lhasa

  Non-Fiction

  Buddhism for Busy People

  Hurry Up and Meditate

  Enlightenment to Go

  Why Mindfulness is Better than Chocolate

  *Available from Hay House

  Please visit:

  Hay House Australia: www.hayhouse.com.au

  Hay House USA: www.hayhouse.com®

  Hay House UK: www.hayhouse.co.uk

  Hay House South Africa: www.hayhouse.co.za

  Hay House India: www.hayhouse.co.in

  Copyright © 2016 by Mosaic Reputation Management (Pty) Ltd.

  First published by Conch Books in 2016. This edition published under license in Australia and New Zealand by Hay House Australia Pty Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au

  • Cover design: Margot Hutton • Author photo: Janmarie Michie • Proofreading: www.donnahillyer.com • Typesetting by: Bookhouse • Edited by: Margie Tubbs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents appearing in this work are the sole expression, opinion and product of the author’s imagination only, are entirely fictitious and do not represent and are not based on any real life views of any character or event in any way whatsoever and any resemblance is strictly coincidental. Any and all references and depictions appearing in this work to real life persons, living or deceased, are based solely and entirely on the author’s imagination and are in no way a representation of, or bear any resemblance to the actual views, events or opinions of such persons.

  This book is designed to provide information and motivation to our readers. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged to render any type of psychological, legal, or any other kind of professional advice. The contents of this book represent the sole expression and opinion of its author, and not necessarily that of the publisher. No warranties or guarantees are expressed or implied by the publisher’s choice to include any of the content in this work. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any physical, psychological, emotional, financial, or commercial damages, including, but not limited to, special, incidental, consequential or other damages. The reader is responsible for their own choices, actions, and results.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978-1-4019-5069-9

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  1st edition, September 2016

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.

  ORHAN PAMUK, MY NAME IS RED

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  This book is being written by royal decree. Well, sort of.

  It all began on my favourite day of the year—the first of the Queen’s annual summer visit to Balmoral Castle in Scotland. We three royal corgis were in a state of high excitement.

  Having travelled up from Windsor with the household staff on the previous day, we had arrived too late to see the Queen, who had already retired for the evening. Still closeted in a downstairs scullery when the family had left for church that morning, we were released just a few minutes before they were expected home.

  The three of us romped through the ground floor, reacquainting ourselves with favourite suntraps and hidey-holes. We snuffled at the hearthrugs on which we had spent many a happy evening, toasting ourselves before glowing log fires. We poked our snouts into half-forgotten corners and raised them inquisitively towards the window, taking in the scents of gorse and heather—evocations of rambling country walks in summers past.

  Winston, older than the Queen herself—albeit in dog years—headed with unusual haste towards the drawing room: the scene of his most tantalising discovery to date. It was behind a leather wing chair in the room, five years earlier, that he had come upon an overlooked and entirely uneaten plate of lobster vol-au-vents. He had devoured the snack in minutes. No matter how many unrewarded return visits he made to the room, the memory of that glorious find would light up his grizzled features, whenever he turned in its direction.

  Margaret, meantime, was trotting through the corridors, ears pointed and eyes alert. Her herding instincts were stronger than most royal corgis and her demand for service was absolute. She was especially watchful of the staff. As every liveried helper in the r
oyal household was painfully aware, the slightest infraction or delay could provoke a cautioning nip to the ankles.

  I soon found my way to the large bay window in the dining room and hopped up onto the broad, tartan-cushioned sill overlooking a corner of the garden. Twelve months before, that corner had been Football’s favourite spot. Over the years, I had struck up a special friendship with the large, marmalade cat who was a permanent resident of Balmoral. But scanning the landscape, I could see no sign of him at present.

  The sound of footmen and security heading towards the main entrance had all three of us racing from different parts of the castle, as fast as our short legs would carry us. The front door was opened and from it we watched as the familiar convoy of cars approached the castle, before slowing to a gracious stop. We scrambled down the short flight of steps. No matter which of the cars the Queen occupied, our canine instincts always led us unerringly to it.

  You may very well wonder what it is like to find yourself in the presence of the Queen. Having seen a million images of her on TV and in the papers, and encountering her profile daily on banknotes, coins and postage stamps, it is only natural that you’d be curious to know how it feels to encounter one of the world’s most famous people, directly and in person.

  Well, my fellow subject, let me enlighten you. When you meet the Queen, she is exactly as you would expect her to be—in appearance, at least. But she has another quality that catches most people by surprise. A quality which no television camera can capture and which few members of the media pack, corralled firmly behind ever-present railings, get close enough to discover. You see, such is the Queen’s sense of calling that, wherever she goes, she carries with her an almost-tangible expectation that your own deepest wish, like hers, is to serve a greater purpose.

  To say that most people are caught unaware by this sensation would be an understatement. Expecting restraint and aloofness, when they encounter Her Majesty’s gentle but firm expectation of benevolence, they find themselves wishing—perhaps to their own surprise—to be the best that they can be. They want to act in accord with their highest ideals. I have witnessed many people who are so taken aback by this unspoken appeal to their own better natures, they are quite overcome with emotion.

  ‘Hello, my little ones!’ the Queen greeted us that day, as she emerged from the car. Winston and Margaret are red and white Pembrokes, while I have the distinction of a sable-coloured saddle on my back. All three of us rushed about her ankles, our tail stubs wagging frenziedly. We were as delighted to feel her gloved hands patting our necks as she seemed thrilled to see us, after more than 24 hours apart.

  Soon the whole family was heading inside.

  ‘Very nice service,’ the Queen remarked, as they made their way to the drawing room.

  ‘Kenneth always has something sensible to say,’ agreed Camilla.

  ‘Outside the church was a bit worrying,’ observed Charles. ‘How many journalists?’ Tugging at his earlobe, he used much the same tone of voice as if querying a troubling aphid infestation in his rose garden at Highgrove.

  ‘Twice as many as last year,’ said William.

  ‘The numbers are growing.’ The Queen was apprehensive. One of the reasons she so enjoyed these visits to Scotland was the opportunity to get away from the constant prying of telephoto lenses and long-range microphones.

  As Her Majesty settled on a sofa, Philip eased himself down gingerly beside her. He looked over at her, with a fiercely protective expression, lips quivering. ‘Bloody journalists!’ he said.

  ‘One of them called out to Kate, requesting an interview,’ announced William.

  ‘Really!’ harrumphed Charles. The church in nearby Crathie had traditionally been a photo opportunity-only venue, with journalists expected to keep their distance.

  As the rest of the family sat down, the household staff brought in tea and scones.

  ‘Well, I shan’t let them spoil my holiday,’ declared Anne. ‘I shall simply ignore them.’

  The expressions of the others suggested that this was advice they found difficult to follow.

  ‘They won’t go away, Gran.’ Unlike the other family members, Harry was sitting on the floor massaging Margaret’s ears, as she gazed at him beatifically. ‘Unless,’ he continued, ‘you give them something.’

  The Queen, like Margaret, had always had a soft spot for Harry, valuing him as a direct conduit to the younger generation. ‘What might that be?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Not sure. We’d have to come up with something.’

  Kate was nodding. ‘Something safe and lighthearted. Something summery.’

  ‘Like who designed your T-shirt?’ joked William.

  ‘And,’ she responded, ‘whether it was . . . Made in Britain?’ The last three words were chorused by all the younger royals. They had learned, to their cost, the furore that was occasioned by their purchase of items that weren’t manufactured in the UK—or a Commonwealth country at least.

  ‘Such a pity the media insist on running page after page of drivel,’ Charles repeated his oft-made observation. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if newspapers did more to share stories and insights that were really meaningful? Things that might help people lead more purposeful lives.’

  The Queen glanced over at him, uncertainly. ‘Tricky business, persuading the media to lift their sights from terror and trivia. Every one of us has tried.’

  Pushing myself up so that I was balancing on my rear end, I fixed Kate with a pleading expression. She was a soft touch when it came to scones. There was a pause while the family glanced in my direction before Kate said, ‘Well, not every family member.’

  ‘Genius!’ congratulated Harry. Then, responding to the bafflement of the older royals, ‘We offer the media a story about the royal corgis. Videos and photos. A few words about their personalities. Then they can skedaddle for the summer, leaving us in peace.’

  William raised an eyebrow. ‘Worth a try.’

  ‘We might even get one of the corgis to say something meaningful,’ joked Harry, trying to win his father around.

  ‘I’m sure Winston would have a great deal to say, if he didn’t get sidetracked,’ replied Charles drolly.

  Harry pulled a face and, in a stage whisper, said, ‘Vol-au-vents!’

  The family laughed.

  ‘You can forget Margaret,’ said Anne. ‘Given half a chance she’d leave them all bleeding at the ankles.’

  At this point Her Majesty, who had yet to comment on the idea, observed, ‘It would have to be Nelson. He has always been the most diplomatic of the corgis.’

  Realising that my attempt to coax a scone out of Duchess Kate was futile—she was not going to do so in front of the Queen—I dropped to the floor and made my way over to Her Majesty.

  ‘Perhaps you could say something meaningful on our behalf? Something about purpose?’ the Queen enquired looking directly at me.

  ‘After the life he’s led,’ observed Kate, ‘he could write a whole book.’

  ‘Splendid idea,’ the Queen replied, smiling. ‘The Queen’s Corgi! One would be most interested to read it.’

  And so, in a metaphorical sense, the ball was thrown.

  Mulling over the conversation in the glorious days that followed, I began to realise just how true Kate’s observation was. It was a rare week when I didn’t come nose to ankle—if not snout to groin—with the most famous people in showbiz, arts, sports and spirituality. There were few of the world’s most pre-eminent politicians, pop stars or philosophers who weren’t, at some point, ushered into the royal presence. I had sniffed them all, even peed on a few, but let’s not spoil this first chapter by bringing dog-eating despots into it.

  Not only had I met a richly varied and colourful range of human beings, along with a great many bores, I had also been witness to extraordinary encounters that most people will never see. I had eavesdropped on intriguing insights from the highest-level advisers, the best of the best, with whom Her Majesty consults.

&n
bsp; What’s more, it struck me that the never-ending flow of TV and press coverage, films and books about the royal family had one singular thing in common—they were all from a human perspective. Where was the dog’s-eye view? The under-the-table account? What people discovered about the Queen, from the perspective of her most diplomatic of Pembroke Welsh Corgis would, I had no doubt, prove refreshingly different.

  So here we are, you and me embarking on this journey together. One filled with intriguing aromas, wagging tail stumps and something else I am supposed to remember. What was it again? Ah, yes—purpose!

  What’s the point of it all, people sometimes ask? The crowns and castles. The pomp and circumstance. Why bother? Who cares? How can the royal family possibly add to the sum of human happiness—and, let’s not forget, canine, feline and other -ine happiness too?

  Perhaps the answers to some of those questions will be revealed in the pages that follow. Perhaps not. But of one thing I am sure, my fellow subject: it is not by chance that you hold this book in your hands.

  CHAPTER 1

  From my earliest days, I was aware of a place called ‘the shed’. To begin with, I had no idea where it was. But on the very rare occasions when the Grimsleys paid me any attention, ‘the shed’ was invoked. And even as a puppy only a few weeks old, I knew instinctively that it was a place where terrible things happened.

  I was born into the most humble of circumstances, under the kitchen sink in a cramped terraced house in Slough. The youngest in a litter of five pups, and very much smaller than the others, I soon found myself competing for space and attention—not only with my immediate brothers and sisters, who shared a sack in the carcass of what used to be a kitchen cupboard, but also with two older and sturdier litters belonging to other mothers in the house. There were over twenty of us in all.

  It was not an even competition. My size counted against me, as did my right ear which, instead of standing, flopped. Desperate for the same affection that the Grimsleys bestowed on the other pups, it seemed that my dysfunctional ear rendered me unlovable.