I’m pretty certain that I can’t get boiled in oil or imprisoned in the tower of London for this anymore, so I might as well just tell you of the depths of depravity to which I allegedly sank.
I used to live very close to Buckingham Palace. One day, I received a telephone call. On answering, a very irate voice demanded to know if I was the owner of Wilbur. Not really, I responded, but I was in charge of him. The dog had often disappeared for a while but always came back because he was quite elderly.
'This is the Royal Mews.' The voice announced, (I could actually hear the capitals), but then demanded. 'Come and extract your dog!'
‘From what?’ I queried, expecting it to be a royal carriage, or perhaps an ornamental begonia bush.The voice rose in register to a pitch I'd never before in a man.
'From Her Majesty's corgi. Your dog is having sex with one of her on-heat dogs.' The last word was now beyond my hearing ability.
Obediently I left the house and began the eight hundred yard trek over; but suddenly remembered that Wilbur was not the youngest of dogs and it would be a pity to spoil what would probably be his last bit of fun. Thus when I arrived about half an hour later, it was to find the dog, self extracted and lying in the corner of the royal garage with a wry grin all over his furry face and guarded by a near homicidal aide.
'Remove this, this thing!'
Reluctantly the dog got to his feet, his eager face suggesting, perhaps, that a cigarette would be the perfect end to a blissful afternoon. I've always kept a careful lookout but never seen a Corgi/Wilbur cross shuffling around the queen's feet.
Good old Wilbur has now shuffled off this mortal coil and gone to doggy heaven where the corgis, and their guards are probably more accommodating.