Dog Diaries #12

by Kate Klimo

  And the princess? How did she look? I asked Windy.

  Downright radiant, in my humble opinion, said Windy. Then the happy couple stepped into one of them glass coaches. Right out of a fairy tale, it was. They’re on their way back here as I speak, escorted by a full military parade in full uniform and spit-polished. I never did see the like, I tell you.

  At that moment, the crowds outside Buckingham Palace’s gates exploded in a chorus of loud huzzahs.

  That must be them now, I said, my tail wagging.

  The footman tugged on my leash. He was shivering like a Chihuahua, poor lad. It must be difficult weathering the winter without benefit of fur. “Come along, Sue,” he urged me. “Her ladyship’s arrived. Let’s get you back indoors.”

  Windy lifted her wings. Nice chatting with you, luv. It’s back to Trafalgar Square for me. And off she flew, my fine feathered friend.

  Now I am, by nature, an excited sort. But this night, there was extra excitement in the air. And I fed upon it like braised calves’ liver. Maybe it was the crowds outside chanting, “We want Elizabeth! We want Philip!” Maybe it was the servants, whispering and giggling up a storm everywhere I looked. At the end of my leash, I pulled the footman up the stairs and down the long hall. But when I broke free and bounded eagerly into the suite, my little lady wasn’t there! There was only one maid cleaning up. I ran around and sniffed, just to make sure my naughty girl wasn’t hiding from me.

  Where is she? Where is she?

  The maid gave me a look of pure pity. “Poor thing. She wants her mistress. She’s downstairs at her wedding breakfast, little luvie,” she told me. “Did you see the cake, Nigel? It’s nine feet high if it’s an inch. I hear her ladyship and Prince Philip are going to cut it with his navy sword. What I wouldn’t give to see that sight.”

  “I’d prefer the sight of a blazing hearth,” Nigel said. He peeled off his coat and unclipped my leash and went off in search of warmth. I supervised the maid as she bustled about and made sure the royal apartment was spick-and-span.

  We were just finishing up when Nigel returned wearing his coat and carrying my leash. Two outings in one afternoon! Could such a thing really be happening? This, indeed, was a special occasion. Nigel, I noted, looked less than enthusiastic. I daresay, the poor chap needed a heavier overcoat. Or a nice layer of fur. Or a double coat, such as I had. We headed back outside into the blowing sleet and went to stand by the side entrance. There we stood, in the thickening sleet. Nigel shivered while I looked eagerly about. My little lady would appear any moment, I just knew it.

  And—what did I tell you?—the door swung open and there she was! I ran in circles and barked with delight.

  “There you are, Susan!” she said, looking every bit as delighted to see me. “Are you ready to come with me on the royal honeymoon, you lucky little dog, you?”

  I was glad to see that she was no longer wearing that frothy wedding gown. A lot of good it would do her in this sleet. She was now clad in a sensible suit and hat. Footmen assisted her into one side of the coach while long-legged Philip clambered into the other.

  Somebody help me up, please, I barked. The seat of the royal coach was ever so much higher than a motorcar’s. Far too high for my short legs to reach, no matter how hard I tried.

  One of the eight horses pulling the coach turned and bobbed her head with its fancy plumed bridle. Too bad you can’t sprout wings and fly up there, eh, little nipper?

  Bow down a little lower, I snapped, and I’ll be happy to nip that feather off your head and make a set of wings with it.

  Lilibet patted the rug that covered her knees. “Come, Susan!”

  “Up-sa-daisy!”

  The page, bless the lad’s heart, swooped down and lifted me. He delivered me into Lilibet’s waiting arms. For one brief moment, our eyes locked. I knew then that nothing had changed. Married or not, she was still mine and I was still hers. Philip would just have to get used to the furry third party in this marriage.

  She gently tucked me underneath the rug. It was deliciously warm in there, packed with hot water bottles to warm the royal knees. Of the thousands of cheering people who lined the streets that evening, not a one of them knew that hidden beneath the lap blanket, all cozy and warm and loved, was Susan, the royal corgi.

  At Waterloo Station, we were met by a band of photographers and reporters. Lilibet handed me off to Cyril, the footman. The flashbulbs blinded me, and I blinked. Reporters called out.

  “Is the bride taking her dog on the honeymoon?” they shouted as they surged forward.

  A band of bobbies kept the mob at bay while we made our way to the train platform.

  In addition to myself and the newlyweds, our traveling party consisted of dear Bobo, Philip’s valet, and a police detective who looked at me with narrowed eyes. A rather dodgy character, if you ask me. More flashbulbs exploded as we boarded the train and chugged away from the station in a cloud of steam.

  I slept for the two-hour journey and woke up to discover that the sleet had turned to snow. Leaping up, I pressed my nose to the icy glass. I adore snow. I love to run through it. I love to eat it. I love to watch it fall. Have you ever noticed that everything smells different beneath a blanket of snow? Brighter, sharper, altogether more delicious.

  When we arrived at the train station, a motorcar carried us to the estate of Philip’s uncle Mountbatten. Lilibet and Philip and our party spent the first week of the honeymoon as his guests. I saw a good deal more of Cyril than I did of Lilibet. But the snow was a delightful distraction. One day, it fell so thickly, I ran up and down the garden paths, herding the big, furry white snowflakes like a flock of downy goslings.

  A week later, our group moved on to more familiar territory: Balmoral, in Scotland. We stayed in one of the hunting lodges on the estate. It was a dark, musty place with heavy furnishings and enough tartan plaid to make me dizzy. But here the princesses had spent their summers in the simpler days before their father became king. This being one of Lilibet’s favorite places on earth, it soon became mine, as well.

  Lilibet and Philip and I settled in quite happily, and we spent many a contented hour in each other’s company. There were no posh parties or dressing for dinner here. Balmoral wasn’t that kind of place. There were quiet nights huddled before a roaring fire. There were days traipsing through the woods and over the moors. Don’t tell the fashion-page editors, but Lilibet went around in adorably clunky army boots and a fleece-lined leather jacket. I often tagged along when she went with Philip on hunting expeditions.

  Like many royals, they had a fondness for blood sports. I confess I felt sorry for the stags. Both Lilibet and Philip were deadeye shots, and those poor creatures never stood a chance.

  Was it an honor to be felled by a royal bullet? I fancy not. Rather!

  Ever since the day reporters saw me in the royal carriage at Waterloo Station, the die was cast. I became very nearly as famous and sought after as the royal couple! The high fence surrounding Buckingham Palace kept me safe from prying eyes and nosy newspaper photographers eager to snap my photo. But reporters could still write whatever they pleased about me. Not that I could read it, but I’m sure they had their own bizarre ideas about what life was like for me behind royal doors. The Inside Scoop, as it were. I’d give them something to scoop.

  But Lilibet ignored them all. As far as she was concerned, her corgi was nobody’s business but her own.

  The happy couple decided on St. James’s Palace as their city residence. It was just down the Mall from Buckingham Palace. But the house was badly in need of repairs. So while it was being fixed up, they moved temporarily into an apartment in Buckingham Palace. The royal family called the palace the House. This was not meant nicely. None of them, not even the king and queen, cared for the House very much. They much preferred their residences in the country. But the House was their London headquarters and they were stuck with it, poor dears.

  Calling Buckingham Palace a “house” is rather like calling me a te
acup Chihuahua. It has 775 rooms, including 19 staterooms, 52 bedrooms, 188 bedrooms for staff, 92 offices, and 78 bathrooms. Whenever my lady was in the House, I stayed by her side. But when she and Philip were gone on one of their royal tours for the king, I ranged more widely. I pitter-pattered from room to room, sniffing and exploring, eager to find something to herd or chase. My tendency to wander in search of far-flung amusements rather vexed the staff.

  “Come back here, Susan!” they would call out to me. But I kept on going with not so much as a by-your-leave. I was tame and obedient for no one but the princess. And I answered to no one but her.

  Often on my palace rambles, I would leave a wee “contribution” on some elegant rug or drape. Was this shabby behavior? It was just my little way of showing that I was ruler of all I surveyed.

  One time a new footman caught me at it. He grabbed me by the scruff and was fixing to rub my nose in my business. But a maid swooped down on him. “Oooh! Don’t you dare, Danny!” she scolded. “No one can discipline Susan but the Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth herself! If she ever got wind of your doings, you’d lose your job, you would.”

  But did Lilibet ever scold me? Not once, that I can recall. I suppose you could say we had an understanding, she and I. We existed, together, in our own royal bubble. But one day, something happened to disturb the Bubble.

  The first thing I noticed was that Her Royal Highness was not herself. Something was badly amiss. For one thing, she had lost the lovely roses in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. Gone, too, was her healthy appetite. What little she did eat came up immediately after breakfast. I followed her into the loo and watched her with an anxious look.

  “You’re not to worry, Susan,” she told me as she splashed her face with water. “I have a bit of morning sickness, that’s all.”

  I whined, Fix it!

  “The doctors say I shall be getting over it soon. This is what happens to some women when we are expecting.”

  In any event, her sickness in the mornings did not prevent her from having a jolly good time the rest of the day. She and Philip attended the horse races at Ascot together. They went to teas and parties and were often out dancing in nightclubs till all hours. And day by day, she grew more plump. The roses returned to her cheeks. Eventually, she was too plump to dance or go out in public. She was all mine then. It was just too, too delicious when she held me on her lap. But there was a warm lump in her tummy that grew bigger every day. When I put my ear to the lump, I thought I heard a steady thumpety-thump sound. Made my ears perk right up, I can tell you that. And then there were times when—egads!—the lump shifted and struck out, as if wanting to kick me off my little lady’s lap!

  Good sweet mother of all corgis! What was happening to my mistress?

  That fall of 1948, a crew of men came to the palace and set to work with ladders and hammers and buckets of paint. In an attempt to keep them in an orderly herd, I chased after them, nipping at their heels. I ran myself ragged but, still, they insisted upon scattering their separate ways. And when the rooms were cleaned and painted, the men brought in strange new furniture and instruments. I stood and watched, in a state of utter bafflement.

  Sensing my mystification, Lilibet took me on a tour. “Instead of my going to a hospital, this is where I’m to have the baby,” she explained to me.

  Repairs and remodeling at the palace were nothing new to me. And whenever a given room was redone, I always made a point of passing through and leaving a modest contribution, just to mark my participation. But this suite smelled so clean, so new, so very important, that I couldn’t bring myself to squirt so much as a single drop. Fancy that!

  One night, following the evening meal, Lilibet clutched her tummy and said to Philip, “Darling, I think it’s started.”

  My ears pricked.

  So did Philip’s. All of a sudden, he was a twitter of nerves as he rushed Lilibet to the new suite. I trotted along behind them. All at once, Philip whirled upon me. In a sharp voice, he said, “Not you, Susan.”

  I stopped in my tracks and stared up at him. My eyes smoldered. Very well, dear boy, if that’s the way you want it. This time—and only this time—I’m willing to go along. I watched as they disappeared from sight, giving the door a great big bang. Well, I never!

  Moments later, strange-smelling men brushed past me and entered the room. Philip came out, and I followed him down to the palace gym. There, he commenced a round of squash. How bad could things be if he had time for sport? At sixes and sevens, I paced from room to room. The entire palace was ablaze with lights and abuzz with talk, both among the staff and the family. I looked from face to face, trying to understand what in the world was happening to my Lilibet.

  Later that night, one of the staff announced that Princess Elizabeth had given birth to a seven-pound, six-ounce baby. A son.

  Soon after, I heard him squalling.

  A pup! So that was what the lump had been. My little lady was now a mother.

  Later that night, the baby was carried into the ballroom for inspection. The staff stood and stared in awe. He was placed in a little cot and swaddled in white blankets. He was so very small, and he had such a very pink and wrinkly face. And he wriggled. But for all his tiny size, he had a very big name. They called him Charles Philip Arthur George. I say! Hip, hip, hooray and all that for the little baby with the long name.

  “Imagine,” one of the maids whispered to another, “one day that precious little bundle will be king of England.”

  The next time I saw Lilibet, she was in the royal apartment with that same precious bundle at her breast.

  “I never thought one could be kept so busy in bed,” she said to me with a contented sigh.

  I kept my thoughts to myself. Philip I was barely able to tolerate. But there was something about this defenseless little bundle that made me burn with jealousy.

  Apparently, people outside the palace understood these feelings of mine. A newspaper called the Daily Mirror put out a request to its young readers to advise Lilibet on how to keep me, Susan, from growing jealous of the baby. One young man knew from his own experience of being a big brother. He wrote, “First. Show baby to Susan, stroking Susan all the time. Second. When nursing baby let Susan have a nice saucer of milk or tea beside you.”

  In the next weeks and months, I spent ever so much time being shown the wriggling bundle whilst being stroked and cooed at. And I drank enough milk to float one of Philip’s navy vessels.

  But never fear, boys and girls. In time, I grew to be almost as fond of the little prince as I was of his mother. How could I not? They had the same dark hair and bright eyes and the very same sweet scent. I was always on my best behavior around him. This turned out to be very good practice for me.

  As it happened, my own experience of motherhood lay just around the corner.

  It was some months later when I began to feel rather strangely myself. I felt restless and itchy and hot and hungrier than any ten corgis. I was also just a tad prickly. If another dog had come sniffing around me, I do believe I would have snapped his head clean off.

  Leave it to my little lady to be the first to notice the change in me. We were at Balmoral. I had just polished off my breakfast, a special meat biscuit smothered in gravy made from Lilibet’s secret recipe. Having licked my plate clean, I found myself still famished. I sat watching my lady’s hand lift a scone to her lips. She eyed me, one eyebrow cocked.

  “Still hungry, are we, Susan?” she asked.

  Oh, yes, please, my eyes told her. A bit of that deliciousness, if you please.

  She smiled, pinched me off a corner of her buttery scone, and tossed it to me.

  No sooner had my jaws snapped and my throat swallowed than my eyes said, More please? I’m ever so much hungrier than usual.

  “You know, darling,” she said to Philip, “I think Susan may have just gone into heat.”

  “Has she really, now?” Philip said, with his nose in the newspaper. He could not have cared less. If
I had burst into flames, I doubt he would have bothered to douse me with a cup of tea.

  Lilibet gave me a look that was just between us gals. “Let’s give you a little more time and see, shall we, dearest?”

  As the days passed, my condition grew more dire. What was happening to me? I felt crazy and jumpy, and my bladder, never very dependable, was out of control. I kept the staff hopping. They followed along behind me with the blotting paper and the soda water, cleaning up messes as fast as I could make them.

  And then, on a day when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I was leashed up and led away by a footman. It became immediately obvious that we weren’t going to the garden. Where was he taking me? Had I made one mess too many? Eaten the princess out of palace and home? Was I such a pest that I was being banished from the royal presence?

  “Up you go, girl.”

  The footman swept me in his arms and placed me in a motorcar. I sat on the seat and tried to console my fretful self with the scents blowing past the moving vehicle. At length, we came to a flat grassy area where an enormous metal object with birdlike wings rumbled.

  “This is it, Susan,” said the footman. “We’re flying you south. By royal order of Princess Elizabeth.”

  He opened the door. When I failed to jump down with my usual eagerness, he picked me up and carried me into the belly of the big metal bird.

  I sat in his lap as the bird rumbled and groaned and took off high into the air. At first, I was beside myself. My claws scrabbled at the window.

  Let me out!

  But the footman held me close and spoke to me gently, and eventually I calmed down. I pressed my nose to the glass.