Little legs, big hearts

Six inches is all that separates Cadogan and Carson—pembroke welsh corgis—from the ground beneath them, but when out in nature, they will trundle along any path before them, sometimes with extreme difficulty, but always just as doggedly as pooches three times their size. Felled trunks blocking the way? No problem. Sometimes, their small stature is even an advantage, allowing them to find paths through which their bigger brethren cannot follow.

Carson, our younger, slightly cuter (and troublesomely aware of it), and much spunkier corgi likes to flaunt this advantage any chance he gets—he always looks around bemusedly before taking his small-dogs-only route, like he’s hoping to lock eyes with a larger dog whose only option is to jump over the path-blocking trunk, just to gloat. He gets a peculair amount of pleasure from taunting larger breeds. Huskies, watch out. Terriers, you can continue right along. Little dog syndrome? Perhaps. But something in his more jovial demeanor and springier steps seconds after barking ferociously at a dog that could gobble him up in one bite tells me he simply derives pleasure from eliciting pure shock on the bigger dogs’ faces. They never respond threateningly, just bemusedly, confusedly. Their heads tilt and eyes squint: wait, did that corgi just challenge me, like an equal? ‘Atta boy, Carson, ‘atta boy. Never lose your moxie.

The fun, however, starts well before we get to the trail—from the moment they are lifted from the paw-shaped-dirt-stained backseat of their dads’ SUV and placed upon the parking lot cement. Ever alert, they quickly survey their surroundings, yelping at nearby humans and wagging their tails expectantly; after all, they’ve never encountered a biped who didn’t rush over to give them hearty behind-the-ear scratches (after asking for permission, of course). While Cadogan seeks out human strangers to remind him how cute and joy-inducing he is, Carson only has eyes and ears for a big dog that he can rile up. The second he spots one of adequate size, the yanking becomes so intense that he can cause himself to wheeze and will only slow down for as long as it takes to cough out the discomfort before resuming his tugging. Needless to say, we create quite the scene as we make our way to the trailhead. We park as close as we can, but almost without fail we pass a child or teenager who, immediately upon seeing the little-legged wonders, will forcibly tug their mother’s shirt and unrestrainedly yell, “Look, mom, a corgi, LOOK!”

Once we successfully divert their attention away from the other dogs and humans and onto the trail, they become downright giddy. Now, nothing can deter them from reaching the bare earth. Cadogan, most at home outside, spending as much time as possible every day rolling around in the sun-drenched dirt of his backyard, is now the one yanking on the leash with unrelenting enthusiasm. As soon as his paws move from cement to dirt, he collapses onto the ground, and will often start licking the dirt so vigorously that the next time he looks at you, it is with a totally brown tongue hanging out the side of his upturned mouth, and jubilant eyes.

Once we finally get them onto the trail, Cadogan already ready for a bath, something truly hilarious transpires. Cadogan, the older of the two, ceded his alpha status to Carson when Carson was less than a year old, but hikes are one of the rare activities that cause him to attempt a coup. The brothers turned temporary stone cold rivals start jockeying for the pole position, nipping at each other’s necks and using their formidably large and fluffy butts to knock the other off balance and obstruct their view. It’s something akin to a rehearsed dance, as it always has a recognizable pattern and always ends the same way. For a time, after the initial roughhousing, they settle into an agreement. Carson, being the alpha, will start in the lead, and will usually stay in that position for the first half mile. Then, a few quick licks of Cadogan’s snout and a brief sit by his side let him know it’s his turn now. Less than a quarter mile later, though, Carson decides he has been far too gracious, and will retake the lead with a burst of speed and a growl of warning as he passes. This back and forth continues for the entire hike, until Carson realizes we are getting close to the car, then no matter how long Cadogan has been leading, he must once again take charge of the situation to deliver us safely back to our transportation, and ultimately to his favorite place in the world: home.

At another of their favorite places, the dog park, Cadogan and Carson are often referred to as “the sheriffs” or “the fun police” by the other dog owners. If one dog so much as looks at another with an air of mischief or shows any signs of preparatory playfulness, the corgis will let out a warning cry. “Put one paw out of line, and you’ll regret it.”

Their energy unfailing and their small legs surprisingly powerful, the corgi brothers sprint from playgroup to playgroup to keep all dogs in line. So busy with their self-appointed roles, they never join in on play themselves; after all, they are regal corgis, for crying out loud. What would the Queen say if she saw them partaking in trivial frivolity? No, they are happiest when they’ve got a job to do, and derive added pleasure from preventing other dogs from enjoying themselves.

Dogs are not the only creatures at the mercy of their disciplinary nature. Unfortunately, our cat has been relegated to the second floor of the house. His only chance of stepping foot anywhere on the first floor is when the dogs are on a walk. We will often see him through our front door’s large window sprinting to the stairs, licking his lips from his last hasty bites of our lemon tree as he tries to avoid the corgis’ ire from intruding on their territory. It wasn’t always this way, as we all lived together in a one-story hope for several years. However, after moving into a two-story, the corgis decided they’d had enough of sharing their spaces with their feline roommate, and set new rules for the living arrangements. Almost as if the three of them had a secret meeting while we were out one day and signed a binding contract, the laws are clear: the corgis own the first floor, the cat owns the second floor. It’s so clear cut that even when the corgis occasionally venture upstairs, usually when there are snacks being eaten, they tiptoe around the cat’s territory as he looks on resolutely, usually sitting in the dead center of the hallway connecting the three bedrooms, the perfect spot from which to keep an eye on all corners of his domain. It’s a completely different story when he is downstairs; he is absolutely terrified of Carson, and you cannot even carry him to the first floor without having your chest mauled as he desperately kicks off from your body to escape.

Yes, corgis are strange, but in a sublime way. Their dichotomous, exuberant personalities relay that there are deep emotions, anxieties, enthusiasms, and frustrations that color their daily experiences in this world. They are one of the greatest gifts that I have been lucky enough to receive in this life, having taught me so many lessons in caring for other living creatures, and in, most importantly, how to receive the deep love and affection of loyal, adoring companions.