The corgi

Ah, the stumpy, bad-tempered corgi. He is, of course, Welsh, and he has no name because he has never found a name that both pleases him and that he finds befits what he fondly believes is his Royal Welsh status. He sometimes toys with the idea of having a noble, princely Welsh name like Owen or Geraint or Bryn; even Huw; but on such occasions he is beset by the knowledge that he is grumpy, stumpy and plumpy and that he probably deserves a cheesy old Welsh name like Gwilym or Idwal. Or even Pugh. Which of course he hates and which adds to his general irritability.

He has a true Welsh passion for music, especially folk music; he plays the lyre, is often to be found howling harmonies at a ceilidh, and has got heavily into line dancing recently, which I must say has done wonders for his figure, if not our CD collection.

What else? He's partial to a slice of steak-and-kidney pie. He's forever starting courses, evening classes and so on, but he's inevitably hampered by his inability to read. Rarely barks. Wears a heavy brown leather studded collar of which he is inordinately proud. Not very affectionate, rather aloof in fact, but when he sees suffering he can show a bit of sympathy as long as he’s not too hungry.