‘People who think we’re the most pampered dogs in the world have got the wrong end of the stick’, said one Buckingham Palace corgi. ‘Oooh, a stick, throw it throw it throw it’ said another.
‘That’s exactly what I mean’ explained the first corgi. We’re cooped up here, with little in the way of thrown sticks or much of a breadth of bottom-sniffing opportunities. Apart from that really old bloke, the bad tempered one. You can smell him a mile off. But it’s not what a Corgi’s looking for in a bum-smell, frankly. Mind you he’s less dangerous now he’s bedridden. Used to be a kicker, before he lost the royal marbles.’
‘Oooh marbles, marbles!’ said the other Corgi. Roll them, roll them! Hey I nearly choked on one of the little princey’s marbles. It was all hushed up. And they give me his dinner when he won’t eat it. But they won’t find out where I puke till the smell gets out of hand’
‘So, what I’m thinking is us corgis what want to get let off the leash and live a more normal life, you know,’ said the first Corgi. Less media spotlight. Fuck off into the distance. Experience more opportunities to discover different dogs’ shit and eat it, if we’re so inclined, or fuck a mongrel or sofa subject to height restrictions. Which you just can’t do with Nicholas Wichell breathing down your neck the whole time.
‘Oooh Wichell, Wichell. Smelly bollocks! Bite him bite him!’ observed the second Corgi.
‘That’s what I mean,’ repeated the first corgi. ‘Us corgis aren’t made for meeting heads of state or prime ministers or charity work or media appearances. It’s time to set us free, so we can live our own lives. Like normal corgis’
But the second corgi confessed to having doubts about the plan: ‘There’s that bit of carpet in the White Drawing room by the side of the fireplace. Smells great! I’d miss scratching my itchy arse on that. And there’s a footman’s leg I’m fond of humping. I might stay.’