Dog Diaries #12

by Kate Klimo

Now, now, children. Stiff Upper Lip, I reminded them.

  I was scarcely able to tolerate the noise myself. Elizabeth, on the other paw, seemed to thrive on the racket. She insisted that every day start this way. Perhaps, like a cold shower, it woke her up and readied her for what was to come.

  After the din subsided, Elizabeth sat down at her desk and got to work. We corgis lay on the floor, in classic corgi style, on our bellies with our legs splayed out in what is known as the flying squirrel formation. While we napped, she would answer her correspondence or confer with her private secretaries. They arrived daily bearing baskets full of papers that needed signing and two boxes covered in red leather. She opened the red leather boxes with a special key. What did the boxes contain? Secret papers would be my guess. But then again, dogs cannot read, so everything humans write is a secret to us.

  After lunch, if she had no appointments, Elizabeth would take us for a long walk in the palace gardens. And, oh, how pleasurable it was!

  The pages or footmen who sometimes walked us were often impatient, urging us through our rounds at a brisk pace. Had Elizabeth known this, she would have been most displeased. When she did the honors, Her Royal Majesty took her time. She had a deep appreciation for the moments that are important to a dog. Watching the leaves drift to the ground. Sniffing a scent. Herding a swarm of butterflies. Squatting to do our business in just the right spot. I believe she cherished these walks with us. Why? Because when she was with us, she wasn’t a queen. Everyone else scraped and bowed before her. But to us, she was simply our dear little lady, the one who kissed us and groomed us and fed us and took us for Walkies.

  In the afternoons, while Elizabeth entertained visitors or had her hair washed and set, we dogs alternately ran around and curled up and napped. We woke from our afternoon nap when the page came through the door, wheeling the lace-draped tea cart with its delectable cargo of tiny sandwiches and scones and gingerbread and muffins. Believe me, dear boys and girls, you haven’t lived until you’ve had high tea at Buckingham Palace!

  We gathered around the table and eagerly waited for the bits of scone and gingerbread Elizabeth tossed down to us. When the children had tea with their mum, we got the additional delicious bits and bobs that fell from their hands. Sometimes, we even licked their sticky fingers and faces. By the time the nanny came and bore them off for bedtime, we had eaten just enough to tide us over until dinner.

  When Prince Philip dined with the queen, we were often banished to our quarters. I tried to be sporting about it. After all, we’d enjoyed her company for most of the day. The prince was not my favorite person in the world, but he deserved his time alone with Elizabeth.

  Our days passed in a delightful whirl of pampered routine. And then one day I began to hear a new word around the palace. The air rang with it. The word was coronation. I had never heard it before, and I had no idea what it meant. But this much I can tell you. It wreaked havoc on our daily schedule.

  This coronation business was the highlight of Elizabeth’s life. Yes, outshining even her eighteenth birthday, when she received yours truly as a gift. It required endless discussions and preparation. I have met dogs, at Sandringham and Balmoral, who have been bred and trained to compete in rather posh affairs called dog shows. This coronation, it seemed to me, was exactly like a dog show for royalty. And make no mistake: Elizabeth was going for Best in Show. And the preparation and practice threw our daily routine into chaos, I tell you!

  A stuffy little man they called the archbishop came to visit early almost every morning. He sat in the sitting room and slurped tea and droned on while Elizabeth cocked her head and listened.

  Later in the morning, down in the ballroom, she practiced for the coronation ceremony. A bossy man called the Duke of Norfolk directed her to walk about with sheets tied to her shoulders onto which weights had been sewn. The sheets were frightful heavy, but she always moved with stately ease and grace. Never once did my little lady stumble or falter.

  Afternoons, she sat at her desk answering letters or reading the secret papers from the red box. Perched on her head was an enormous object that sparkled with jewels.

  I stared up at her in puzzlement. She looked down at me and smiled.

  “It’s a crown, Susan. This particular crown is known as the St. Edward’s Crown. It was used in the coronation of Charles II, in 1651. I shall be wearing it during the coronation ceremony. It weighs five pounds, so I must get used to its weight, just as I must get used to my duties as queen. The crown is the single most important symbol of the British monarchy.”

  I licked my lips and growled. For a symbol, it looked frightfully heavy. Perhaps she would need my help carrying it? As usual, my little lady read my mind.

  “Sorry, darling. The ceremony’s to be held at Westminster Abbey.”

  Westminster Abbey? Wasn’t that where she had taken her wedding vows? Apparently, no one had seen fit to change the rules. There were still no dogs allowed. The very idea!

  One day in the ballroom, instead of sheets she wore a fur-trimmed cloak with a long train that took six ladies-in-waiting to carry. Wearing the heavy crown and dragging the cloak, she walked around and around. She did this endlessly. Then the duke finally asked, “Would Your Majesty care to rest?”

  She said, “I’ll be all right. I’m as strong as a horse.”

  When I heard the dreaded word horse, I gaped. Now horses were being brought into this? It wasn’t bad enough that my lady had to be burdened with a crown and a cape? Would she also have to perch on a horse in the treacherous sidesaddle position? Did they even let horses into the abbey? And if so, why weren’t corgis allowed, too? This was an outrage! A scandal, I tell you.

  On a bonnie day in June, I stood by and watched as Bobo and the other maids helped Elizabeth into her fancy gown. It was a lovely garment: white silk embroidered with strange symbols.

  Pointing to them, Elizabeth said to her ladies, “These are the emblems of all the nations belonging to our vast empire. The rose of England, the thistle of Scotland, the leek of Wales, the shamrock of Ireland, the oak leaf of Canada, the lotus flowers of India and Ceylon, the wheat shaft of Pakistan, and so on.”

  She showed them a small picture in the exact spot where her hand naturally rested.

  “And that is a four-leaf clover…for good luck,” she said.

  An Irish setter once told me that a four-leaf clover meant something magical to humans. Perhaps queens needed a bit of magic to rule their kingdoms. Perhaps my corgi enchantment would come in handy now.

  After one quick kiss on my nose, she was gone in a flurry of rustling silk.

  The pups and I retired to the Corgi Room to have a little lie-down. The disruption of our routine over the past weeks had been exhausting.

  Suddenly, I heard noises nearby. I sat up and panted. They were coming from the room next door. The three of us hopped out of our beds and sallied forth. A crowd had gathered in the pantry. They stood staring at a noisy little box sitting on the counter.

  What are they doing? Sugar asked.

  What is that noisy little box they’re all staring at? Honey wanted to know.

  It is a magic box, I said, that allows the staff to see the goings-on in Westminster Abbey.

  I want to see, too! Sugar and Honey demanded, tails awag.

  I led them, nosing our way through the forest of legs, until we were standing in front of the magic box.

  One of the footmen said, “I hear the ceremony is being broadcast on televisions clear around the world.”

  We peered up at the box—this contraption the footman called a television. In it, I saw masses of people lining the streets of London standing in torrents of rain—your typical English weather—watching a parade. The people seemed happy and excited as they cheered the parade. Music poured out of the television. It was the music of the bands marching in the parade. And—egads!—there were bagpipers, too! Thankfully, the sound was muffled.

  Someone said, “There are twenty-nine bands and twenty-seve
n carriages in the parade.”

  One of the maids added, “And soldiers from fifty different nations. It’s so exciting!”

  In a large carriage, a big smiling woman waved to the cheering crowds. She wore a regal robe. On her head sat a crown with a long feather in it.

  “Whoever is that?” one of the pages asked.

  “The reporter said it’s the queen of Tonga. Doesn’t she look splendid?”

  The picture changed, showing a huge building with tall spires.

  “Westminster Abbey,” someone said in a voice of awe.

  A fairy-tale carriage pulled by four teams of gray horses drew to a halt before it. I sat down hard and growled. Those horses had better not be entering the abbey!

  “That’s her!” said the maid. “That’s Her Royal Majesty! Doesn’t she look fetching?”

  As my lady stepped out of the carriage, her head was bare, and she looked small and cold in her white dress. She slipped into the church. I yawned and licked my lips. I know you’ll think me terrible, but I stretched out and fell asleep. I simply couldn’t keep my eyes open a moment longer. I felt wrung out from the excitement of the past few weeks. And when I woke up, everyone in the room and on the television was clapping and cheering. Queen Elizabeth II was coming out of the church in her crown and long cape.

  All that fuss and worry and it was over during the time it took me to take the merest wink of a nap.

  —

  In the months after the coronation, Elizabeth and Philip traveled the kingdom far and wide. The following June, in 1954, Sugar and Honey and I were at Windsor Castle, keeping company with Prince Charles and Princess Anne.

  The children were in bed, fast asleep. We corgis were dozing on the carpet, when, suddenly, I beheld a man stealing into the room.

  Sugar, who had always been a heavy sleeper, snoozed on. But Honey’s head snapped up. Who goes there?

  Hush, child. Let Mummy take care of this.

  My hackles rose. I growled deep in my throat. I flew at him and clamped my jaw around his leg.

  “Help!” he screamed.

  Honey started barking, cheering me on, and Sugar woke up and joined in.

  Miss Lightbody, the new nanny, came running. She threw up her arms and shook her fists and said very sternly, “Susan—NO! NO! Bad, BAD girl! Down.”

  I held on to the man’s leg and growled at her. Try and make me. I answer only to the queen.

  She got down on her knee and said to me in a much gentler voice, “Susan, dear, he’s a friend. Not a foe. Let him loose immediately, please.”

  Firmly, she grabbed my collar in one hand and the man’s leg in the other, and managed to pry us apart. She was stronger than she looked.

  “I’m so very sorry,” she said to the man.

  To me she said, “Don’t you recognize Mr. Hubbard? He is the Royal Clock Winder!”

  I growled. Of course I recognized him. He was the man who kept the nursery clock in the big box ticking night and day. For the past few days, that thing had gone blessedly silent, and I liked it that way. What use has a dog for a clock? My nose is all the clock I need. My thinking was that, with a little nipping, I could convince the man never to wind that clock again.

  I broke loose from Miss Lightbody and once again went for him.

  But the man shook me off, and drat! He opened the cabinet and began to wind that clock!

  By now, the children were awake and other servants had arrived. Before the scene grew any uglier, I stood down. I knew when I had lost. Seething, I watched Mr. Hubbard as he finished winding the clock.

  Tick-tick-tick-tick. For the rest of that night, I lay on the rug and sulked. I closed my eyes and heard the clock tick-tick-ticking as, in my dreams, I ran in hot pursuit of the dreaded Royal Clock Winder.

  Now that Elizabeth was on the throne, the press was eager for new stories. They pounced upon this one. There must have been spies in the household. The next day, the newspaper headlines screamed: QUEEN’S CORGI LOSES MIND AND ATTACKS ROYAL WINDER!

  Such balderdash! Was no one in England interested in reading the truth? Not a single reporter asked me for my side of the story.

  On the day she returned, the queen whispered in my ear, “I hear you’ve been very busy while I was away. Guarding the nursery from the wicked Clock Winder. You never did like that clock, did you? Well, I don’t blame you one bit. I don’t, either.”

  It was so good to know that Her Majesty was still on my side.

  Toward the end of the same year I gave what-for to the Royal Clock Winder, I also became a proud grandmum. Sugar was sent to Rozavel to be mated with a handsome Pem corgi by the name of Rebellion. She returned to us in due course, with the grandpups, Whiskey and Sherry. Her Royal Highness was meant to choose one of the pups to keep. She sent for Prince Charles and Princess Anne to help her make the decision.

  “Oh, please take the one with the white on his chest!” Anne begged.

  “I prefer the one with the big, floppy feet,” Charles said.

  White on chest or floppy feet? Elizabeth simply could not make up her mind. The fact is, she wanted both pups. And she was queen now, so who was to say she couldn’t have both?

  She drew her children close to her and whispered, “Don’t tell your father. But we’ve got two new puppies! One for each of you. Just in time for Christmas!”

  “Really?” said Prince Charles. “I’ll take Whiskey.”

  “And may I have Sherry?” asked Anne.

  “Yes, yes, of course, my darlings!”

  But both Elizabeth and I knew the truth, and I’ll let you in on it if you promise not to tell. All us corgis really belonged to her. And now there were five of us in the palace. Not long after that, Honey had pups of her own—Bee and Buzz. And then there were seven.

  We were fast outnumbering the royal family!

  The page whose job it was to take us out for Walkies now had more leashes than he knew what to do with! Perhaps that was why I was allowed to run freely in the garden. Not that I was doing much running these days. Truth to tell, I was getting on in years.

  Why can’t we go off the leash, too? Whiskey whined.

  Because you’re a silly little pup, said Honey, who can’t be trusted.

  Besides, said Sugar, Susan is the mother of us all. That gives her special privileges.

  It was a typical London day. A deliciously milky mist hung over the gardens, allowing me to dig up a bed of fragrant jasmine without any of the gardeners seeing. Through the fog, I heard the page wrestling with leashes. The more those naughty little corgis ran around him, the more bollixed up he became.

  I was just standing over the hole I had dug and sneezing the dirt from my nose, when I saw a strange dog appear out of the mist. Who was this shaggy man of mystery?

  When in doubt, growl. Who let you in? I asked. There was a high iron fence surrounding palace grounds and guards everywhere you looked.

  He sniffed as he made his way over to me. He looked a bit dodgy. Scruffy he was, with a ragged ear and scars crisscrossing his hide.

  Cor blimey, while you was digging in that there hole, I thought you was a big dog, but you’re just a wee slip of a gal, ain’t you, with them short little legs!

  That got my hackles up. Watch your tongue! I’m big enough to handle the likes of you, I told him.

  Now calm yourself, miss. No offense intended, I’m sure. To answer your question, I let myself in by digging me a hole underneath the fence, he said. We street dogs is clever that way.

  If they catch you, they’ll toss you out on your ragged ear, I told him. Or worse. Why take the risk?

  Call it curiosity. I pass by this garden every day and gets me a snootful of dog. But I says to myself, “Self, ain’t no dog could possibly be allowed in there.”

  Oh, but we are. We’re the queen’s corgis, I said proudly. And this is our domain.

  So it’s all true, he said. The word on the street is that the dogs who live here are treated like royalty.

  Pishposh, I said. It
’s a simple enough life that we lead.

  You don’t say? Well, let me tell you about my simple life. Me and my mates, we sleep in alleyways and scratch our fleas till our flesh is right raw. We wake up every morning and go rooting through dustbins for scraps of food. Shopkeepers dump cold water on us. Little ones throw rocks at us. And nobody, but nobody, ever touches us or feeds us or so much as calls us friend.

  I was shocked. That a member of our noble species, in this day and age and in one of the greatest cities on earth, should be living in such a state of neglect and poverty. It made my blood boil.

  Say, love, tell me about this simple life of yours, the street dog said.

  And so I told him. I told him about the raised wicker beds and the silver engraved feed dishes. I told him about the seven servants who prepared and served us our meals of liver and steak and tender rabbit—always fresh and never the same menu two days in a row. I told him about Walkies with the queen and high tea at Buckingham Palace. When I was finished, my visitor stared at me with his eyes wide and his jaw hanging.

  Blimey! he said at last. You dogs have got it better than a good many humans—let alone dogs.

  I brooded for a bit. For the first time, I found myself feeling slightly ashamed of my good fortune.

  The street dog nodded and said, Let me tell you one thing, miss. You’d never last a day out on the street.

  I should think not, I said with a shiver.

  A crafty look came over my friend’s furry face. Say, you don’t suppose I can interest Her Royal Highness in taking in a new dog?

  I’m afraid not, I said kindly. The queen only has corgis, and you don’t look as if you have much corgi in you.

  Ain’t that the truth? he said. Well, I better be moseying along before that there fellow untangles himself and comes after me with a net.

  I’m sorry you can’t stay. I had actually enjoyed our little chin-wag. It was fascinating to hear about the World Out There. My name is Susan, by the way. And yours is…?