We've been looking for a puppy for awhile. We've long wanted a second dog, but felt that Hogarth would surely exercise his unilateral veto if we were to broach the subject. That exact thing did, of course, happen when we took him on a field trip to the Humane Society to meet a nice, young Husky pup last year. I haven't seen an uncouth animal go quite so quickly for the throat since Keith Olbermann met Sarah Palin's mom. We just assumed it to be an impossible goal. Then... Hogarth met Mookie, our niece Jennifer's inconsequential wisp of a canine. 'Twas love (or, at least, acceptance) at first sight.

Theories regarding Hogarth's unexpected and equally inexplicable tolerance of young Mookie flew fast and furious throughout the abode. Hockey stick graphs were created out of whole cloth and declines were hidden in order to come up with a plausible explanation. Three competing theories emerged, each held with evangelical fervor by their respective proponents.

One hypothesis held that Mookie's presence was tolerated because the still fully-male-endowed fellow possessed the testicular moxie required to stand his ground in the face of the overbearing and ever-Alpha Hogarth.

Another theory held that it was all a matter of the means of arrival. The various instances of this type non-homicide offered up in evidence of this theory ran the gamut from the very existence of one Latte, a buxom young cat that preceded Sir Hogarth as a member of the family, to the long, full life enjoyed by one Ms. Lilly, a hamster that survived her nature-allotted span of 730 days without running afoul of the Alpha beast. The common trait that both creatures had in common with Mookie was that of having been introduced to Hogarth while being held by one of the pack members. In other words, the theory was that Hogarth equated "being held in the arms of a human" as "not to be eaten." This theory barely survived the contraindications arising from cases in which unattended foodstuffs had been illicitly purloined by Hogarth but, again, inconvenient truths were routinely swept aside.

And the third theory? Well, Mookie isn't much larger than a hamster. Maybe, it was said, in this case size does matter.

At some point it was determined that these competing theories were not, in fact, mutually exclusive. And thus a strategy was born. We would simply look for a fully-endowed male puppy young enough to be introduced to Hogarth as a kind of Trojan hamster. Said puppy would be brought into the house in the arms of a family member. With a plan in place, the search began.

Now, not just any kind of dog would do. As wonderful a dog as Hogarth is, we had to admit that there were certain traits that we'd prefer not to see in a new dog.

We wanted one that would be smaller and thus more portable. A smaller dog would able to travel in various types of motorized vehicles and stay in hotel rooms, things we simply don't even try with Hogarth. Basically we needed a Habu (my Husky mix that weighed in right around 40 pounds) sized dog. And, ironically, we also wanted a dog that would not be such an aggressive pain in the ass around other dogs.

I've long been a fan of the ubiquitous Labrador Retriever, a breed whose rise to said ubiquity was nearly preordained due to its kind nature, native intelligence, and all around good-dogitude. I'm a mixed-breed kind of guy though. Not through any kind of kinship with animals that share my own heavily mixed provenance, mind you. It's more of an economics thing: mutts are typically free.

What do you look for in a Lab mix, though? Chihuahua was right out. "Buy American" is the order of the day. Poodle? Not for me! I still order Freedom Fries at McDonalds. We actually needed to look no further than the type of dogs Martha grew up with: Boxers. It was a close fought battle, what with my vituperative feelings regarding the unesteemed Senator from the great, bankrupt state of California being what they are, but I eventually realized that it was completely unfair to malign an entire breed because of one idiotic human. We started looking for a Lab/Boxer mix. Or, as I call it, a Boxador Retriever.

After a number of missed opportunities (who would have thought that Boxadors would be so in demand??) we came across an available puppy in Glenford, Ohio, a mere hour long drive to the East of Columbus.

Having been the designated namer of pets for time immemorial, it fell to me (ok, I took it) to come up with a name. The litter was comprised of two black males and a trio of black & white spotted pups, two of which were female. In my communications with the guardians of the litter, I expressed a desire for one of the black males. No guarantees could be made, however. That left me with a dilemma: had I been assured of the puppy I desired, I could have chosen the name "Cassius."

Why? Well, he was a black boxer, after all.

But no. All I could reasonably be sure of was that the dog would be a Boxador. Coloration and gender were unknowns. I therefore googled 'Labrador' to determine if there was a type of person that could be referred to as a Labradoran. Had I found that to be the case, I would then have searched for the name of a famous Labradoran aviator. Well, there aren't any. There aren't, as it turns out, any famous Labradorans at all. The closest I could find was one John Cabot, who discovered Labrador in 1497. Five years too late to receive the same acclaim as Christopher Columbus, poor John Cabot is a virtual unknown. So unknown and unappreciated, in fact, that his brief biography in Wikipedia contains a misspelling. That injustice needs to be rectified, and I therefore named our new puppy Cabot in honor of the poor, ignored Sir Cabot. Which, by the way, I'm not sure is even an actual title. I think all he ever got was a 20 pound/year pension from the King of Spain. Or something - I actually lost interest in him moments after purloining his name.

So, at the end of the day Cabot is napping in the nice bed that we bought for the cat, which has been unused from the day we bought it because our cat is, well.... a cat, and therefore far too stubborn to give us the satisfaction of using the bed we bought for him.

Hogarth seems to still think that either 1) Cabot is a black hamster, or 2) that he's a guest like Mookie that will be leaving in no more than two days and therefore not worth getting worked up over.

Either way, he has yet to raise a paw in protest.

Oh, and we met Cabot's parents. His mother, Daisy, is a small-for-the-breed Boxer and his father, Gus, is a small-ish Lab mix. We would expect Cabot to eventually grow to be Habu sized, as was the goal.