I don't know. I'm still puzzling over what greatness truly means in dogs. One thing is certain, however. It's usually in some well-crafted stud ad. Unless it's dead.
Dead greats are multitudinous, of course.
The deader the better, they say. The dog of mine that's been dead long enough for me to forget his faults is Jumper, a black Labrador retriever. The only flaw I remember was his constant inability to know what day it was. To him, Saturday was seven days a week. No matter what morning the kids and I walked out the back door, he began running the pen in anticipation.