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‘I’ve got some qualifications. I could study for others. I’m willing to try new things. The problem,’ he confessed unhappily, ‘is that I just don’t know what to do. I actually feel quite envious of people who have a specific talent. A burning passion to build a business or to become a trainer.’ He shrugged. ‘Or make honey.’
‘I get it,’ said Harry.
‘I wish I could somehow narrow the range. Work out which of the twenty things I could do would give me a sense of purpose.’
Harry paused to reflect for a while before he asked, ‘Are you familiar with the three questions which can help us work out what really matters to us?’
The former serviceman looked at Harry with interest. ‘No, sir.’
‘They can be quite useful. Not immediately, but after giving them some thought. The first question is: if you knew for sure that you were going to die in exactly ten years’ time, how would you choose to spend your time?’
The serviceman raised his eyebrows, the question evidently was unexpected.
‘The second question is: if you knew for sure that you were going to die in exactly one year, how would you choose to spend your time?’
Harry’s guest nodded.
‘And the third question: if you were to die in twenty-four hours, what would you have missed?’
‘Ah!’ The other smiled. Then after a pause, ‘Challenging.’
‘Exactly,’ confirmed Harry.
‘If you think you have all the time in the world, what you do next doesn’t really matter. I suppose these questions make you face the reality that life is finite.’
I pricked up my one and a half ears. The conversation seemed to mirror what Winston had been saying only a few days ago about the truth of impermanence. Except that Harry’s guest had been more direct: life is finite.
I thought of Winston, snorting and wheezing in his basket, unable to sleep. The missed opportunities to mix and mingle, such as this one. It was only then, my fellow subject, when the penny began to drop.
Dr. Axel Munthe had visited Winston several times already. There had been talk of canine influenza and its wide variety of symptoms. The topics of secondary respiratory infections and the role of antibiotics had also been raised. Winston had already had a blood test, but the results had been inconclusive.
When he suddenly became weaker, going off his food almost entirely, Her Majesty consulted Dr. Munthe once again. This time, poor Winston had to go into the clinic overnight for further blood tests, as well as an X-ray.
When Dr. Munthe reappeared, his news was not reassuring. Once again, he had to tell the Queen that the tests hadn’t ruled out one thing or another. For the first time, he mentioned that there was a chance of something ‘sinister’, indicating Winston’s advanced age. But he was not in a position to confirm this. Further diagnostic tests were possible, including an MRI scan. And the very best way of finding out why Winston wasn’t eating, he said, would be to open him up and see exactly what was going on inside his digestive system. However, given his weakened condition, it would take Winston a long time to recover from such invasive action. And besides, Dr. Munthe said, if they were to find the worst, there wasn’t much they could do with that information. He feared the ultimate prognosis would be the same.
While most of this medical talk was incomprehensible to us dogs, his tone of voice and body language were all that we needed. Dr. Munthe clearly had no idea what was wrong with Winston. And although he was no pessimist, in his own measured way he was telling the Queen to prepare herself for the worst.
It was on the evening of Dr. Munthe’s visit that we had retired to the private sitting room at Windsor, where the Queen and Philip sat playing Scrabble. A fire glowed in the hearth and we three corgis were scattered about it, dozing contentedly. At one point I looked up, and found Winston’s gaze fixed on me. He motioned for me to join him.
As I made my way over and lay down beside him, I couldn’t ignore how laboured his breathing had become—even more so than in the past few weeks. It was with some effort that he propped himself up in his basket to face me. ‘Nelson.’ He looked me straight in the eye. ‘I am dying.’
I was startled. ‘Don’t be silly, Winston. That must be the painkillers talking.’ Dr. Munthe had administered a dose that he said would help Winston cope with the attacks of coughing.
‘I can feel it in my bones.’
I knew better than to contradict Winston, when it came to the subject of his intuition. And because he had rarely been so direct with me, I knew I had to take him seriously.
‘But you can’t die!’ I said, feeling helpless.
‘Oh, it’s the most natural thing in the world,’ he said. ‘Every one of us must die and, if you live well, you have nothing to fear.’ From the way he spoke, it was evident that Winston had no concerns about what he faced. ‘Death is simply the transition to adventures new.’
There was the longest silence, interspersed only by the occasional crack of a burning log in the fire. Eventually I told him exactly how I felt. ‘But I don’t want to lose you!’ I said, with feeling.
‘Sweet of you to say so, dear boy,’ he replied in a kindly tone. ‘But parting is inevitable. We come into the world not knowing anyone. And when we leave, it is on our own too. We separate from everyone who has ever been important to us and from every one of our possessions.’
My mind went to the pile of bones stacked near the flowerpots that Winston had been wise to keep hidden in plain sight before he continued, ‘It’s the same for us all. On the day she dies, even the Queen herself will leave this life with as much as you or me or a beggar in the street.’
I considered this bleak prospect for a moment before I asked, ‘Doesn’t that make our whole life a bit pointless?’
