Cromwell the Corgi

Me again. Ready for another story? I thought so. And just a bit of a disclaimer, these aren't in chronological order. Not that it really matters, I suppose. But what I got out of each experience was definitely contingent upon my mental state when I experienced them. So if you look at it that way, it does matter. But I have chosen not to look at it that way. And there you have it.
I'm not going to tell you about Waldorf yet. His story is for a different day. I will, however, tell you about Cromwell the Corgi. (He's Waldorf's best friend, in case you were wondering.) Cromwell hails from Windsor, England, the site of one of Her Majesty's Royal Residences. Windsor Castle is located about an hour train journey outside of London. I decided I wanted to see it, and after a week of inviting people who managed to find every excuse known to man not to go, I took off on my own to see it. If you continue reading this blog, you will see this emerge as a pattern. (The whole taking off on my own thing.) Anyway, I got up early, got myself to Waterloo Station, and hopped on a train to see the royal dwelling. The trip was actually quite pleasant. I saw some sheep. Sheep are always good. I was worried about finding my way from the station, but I realized about thirty seconds out the door that the castle was about the only thing I could see. It completely dominated the town, glowering down from the top of a massive hill. I hiked up said hill, found the front gate and collected my super-dork audio guide (which I had brought my own headphones for... yes, I know). The first part of my walk was the outer walls. Shocking, right? I made my way into the main part of the castle, the semi-state apartments. They are full of incredible works of art, priceless furniture and hundreds of years of meaning. So much has happened there; so many things thought, wars planned, triumphs celebrated, people broken... I think, maybe, it's a good thing that I went alone. If I had been with other people I don't think I would have grasped the weight that kind of age can bring. So many years; just so much, all in that exquisite old place. I was by myself to think about it. I think that's best. The chapel there is incredible, too. Henry VIII is buried there, as well as his third wife Jane Seymour. It's a place of ironic reverence, if you will. So much blood was spilled, so many people crushed by his rule, and there are his mortal remains surrounded by the most tranquil and decadent architecture the human race has produced. It just struck me as I was standing there in that quiet place, that dear Henry should have had just about anything but the best humanity has to offer. Anyway, it was beautiful. And humbling, as most spaces of impeccable craftsmanship usually are. After my jaunt through a landmark of Western civilization, a trip to the gift shop was in order. Did I pick a replica of the royal china? Or perhaps a Christmas ornament? Or maybe a souvenir guide book? No, of course not. I got a stuffed corgi, complete with a "Royal Palaces" medallion around his neck. Thus, Cromwell the corgi became my companion for the remainder of the academic year. He sat in my dorm room, alway regal, always fluffy, always ready to make me smile. Am I embarrassed? Absolutely not. Should I be? Possibly.