Biggest lap dog breed
favorite was also the biggest.”
“A Great Dane?” I guessed. “A Wolfhound?” “Goodness, no. Macbeth was a Deerhound!”
“I remember Macbeth!” I said. “I always imagined you striding the common at midnight,
shrieking: ‘Macbeth, I summon thee!’” “I never ‘summoned him’ because I never let
him off the lead, except in the paddock, or no jogger or cyclist would have been safe.”
“Oh, was he dangerous?” I asked.
“Silly girl,” she said (I haven’t been a girl for a long time). “Macbeth was the gentlest dog ever, but he was a gazehound. They will chase rabbits, squirrels, deer, children, cyclists,
cars, buses, and, my goodness, he could cover ground! Thirty miles an hour, easily, without stretching himself.
“Macbeth wasn’t my only dog at the time. I had a little Dachshund, too, called Frankie.
And a little cat named Caligula.”
“Any special reason,” I asked, “for naming your cat after an insane Roman emperor?”
“Should there be?” Octavia asked. “People warned me that Deerhounds tend to see smaller pets as prey. But Frankie, Callie, and Mac loved each other. The only problem was
Mac thought he was the same size as them.
“Picture Sunday morning: church bells ringing, me in bed, with a cup of tea and the papers. Frankie is snoozing on one side of me, Callie on the other; peace and contentment.
Then, more than 45 kilos of Deerhound launches itself onto the duvet from somewhere
near the door.
“Or ‘Antiques Roadshow’ on the telly: a nice glass of red in hand, Callie purring as
I stroke him, and diving over the arm of the sofa comes to Mac — to curl up on my lap.”
Octavia waved her teacup above her head and raised her left leg to somewhere around her ear, to demonstrate the impact of an incoming, cuddle-seeking Deerhound. The fact
that we were in a busy café didn’t inhibit her at all.
Resettling herself, she sipped tea. “Callie used to hop lifts on Mac. He’d sit on the back of the sofa and, as Mac passed by, he’d step onto Mac’s back and ride him about the place.
When Mac passed somewhere he wanted to be, he’d jump off. We’d see Callie sitting on
the table in the hall and say: ‘He’s waiting for the next Mac.’
“They all slept together in front of the fire;
Mac stretched out like an enormous hearthrug, Frankie snuggled in between his front paws,
and Callie snuggled in between Frankie’s front paws. Spooning. Honestly, it was a sight that could give you diabetes.
“Feeding Mac, though! A kilo of meat every day. He’d just crunch bones. One Sunday lunch,
I had family and friends over, and I’d cooked a massive leg of pork, enough to feed 10
people. The smell of it filled the house. I put it on the table to rest while I got on with the pudding. I should have known better.
carry it out of the door and away down the hall.
He never broke stride.
“By the time I cornered him, the meat was well and truly munched, so Mac had roast pork and family and guests had cheese sarnies all round. After that, I was careful about where I rested the roast.
She sipped tea. “He was the most silent dog I ever owned. I never heard him bark.
Sometimes you wouldn’t know he was near until he licked your ear and sent you leaping for
the light-fitting.”
“I remember first visiting you,” I said. “I was about to follow you inside when this enormous grey thing rose up from nowhere. Two big paws thwacked onto my shoulders and I looked up into a black man, with great white, dripping teeth. And then Mac dropped down and wandered off. All without a sound.”
“He used to do that to the milkman,” Octavia said. “Who got used to it — after a while. Mac was a total softie; the most useless guard dog in the world. Frankie would have chewed any
burglar off at the ankles, but Mac wouldn’t have looked up from the hearthrug.
“But the worst thing about Deerhounds — the very worst thing — is that they live such a short time. They’re so beautiful and lovable and they die young. Mac died of heart failure,
in his sleep, thankfully, so he didn’t suffer.
We found him lying, dead, in his usual place on the hearth.
“When a small dog dies, you bury them under a rose bush. It’s not so simple with
a Deerhound. I wrapped Mac in an old sheet and insisted on burying him in the paddock where he used to run. But it was January.
The ground was iron hard. I had Bob and the boys out there for hours, digging. I was in
floods the whole time.
“Then the police arrived. A road passed the paddock and people gawking from cars had reported our suspicious behavior. The two policemen looked from the grave we were digging to the long, sheet-wrapped bundle we were planning to bury. They were convinced we’d murdered a neighbor.
“Bob had to unwrap the ‘victim.’ Only once they’d seen Mac in all his shaggy glory did they relax. The officers were very nice about our causing unrest, but they didn’t hang around to
help with the digging.
“That’s the only time I’ve helped the police with their inquiries. You see, Mac made life interesting even after he was dead. He was the best. The most beautiful, sweetest dog I ever knew. And the biggest lapdog ever.”
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