Duke Cabot Of Glenford

Winter and the Short-Haired Dog

2011-02-07T07:10:00.000-08:00

As Cabot reaches his tween-age years, we're learning quite a few things about his personality and disposition. We've also learned something about Cabot and cold weather: he doesn't like it. His potty breaks are a sight to behold, at least if you're an aficionado of stark efficiency in action. There's not a wasted moment in the entire process; he wants to spend the minimum amount of time necessary outside in the cold taking care of, well.... necessities.

To that end, we have provided Cabot with some outerwear to help keep him warm.

He liked it so much that we thought we'd try it on his big brother Hogarth. Hoggie was generally okay with it, but that fact was mooted by something we quickly learned about Cabot.

Cabot doesn't like to share.

We already knew that about his toys; he howls and carries on if Hogarth picks up one of his Nylabones for a chewing session. Well, he's the same way with his clothing. He scolded Hogarth for having the nerve to wear his sweater, and even nipped at the sweater as if to tear it off of Hogarth. Hogarth has never been one to enjoy the wearing of clothes, though, so he was quite happy to relinquish it.

We haven't had the heart to tell Cabot that those horizontal stripes make him look pretty chunky. Some things are better left unsaid.

Now I know

2010-12-19T13:36:00.000-08:00

I often wondered what went on all day at home while I was at work bringing home the bacon.

(WOOF! YOU SAID BACON!! WOOF!!)

Now I know.

An interesting mix: part Boxer, part Dalmatian, all Lazy SOB.

Mornings

2010-12-12T08:22:00.000-08:00

Cabot simply cannot rest until he has disturbed everyone else's rest. It's not enough to wake one of us up to put him outside; he'll sit on the couch with his chosen victim for only so long before deciding that he has tired of the present company and needs to wake someone else. Sometimes he can be distracted with breakfast. One of his odd little morning habits is that he has to have something in his mouth. It used to be an old towel that we'd leave by the back door to use for drying him and Hogarth off if they had gotten rained on while outside doing their business, but that got eaten and spread around in the backyard as Cabot, well.... did his business. These days he retrieves one of his Nylabones, the only dog toy in existence that can withstand his powerfully destructive jaws for more than a few hours. So, when he's ready to engorge himself with breakfast, he "parks" the Nylabone.

The "placemat" under the bowls is actually a welcome mat that says "Beware: dog can't hold his licker."

Eating doesn't take long with Cabot's voracious appetite and he is soon looking for another distraction. That often ends up being Hogarth, who really just wants to be left alone in front of the fireplace, relaxing on his new $4.00 blanket from the Thrift Shop. The new blanket, I might add, that was purchased to replace the old one destroyed by (guess who!!) Cabot.

Cabot's Christmas Carol

2010-12-11T13:01:00.000-08:00

Ah, Cabot's first Christmas. He's gotten into the spirit by eating a few lightbulbs off of our brand new pre-lit tree, rendering it partially unlit. He has chewed up and eaten a wooden ornament. And now he has begun to sing accompaniment to one of the battery operated decorations.

He hates it when it stops.

Fetch

2010-11-27T05:59:00.000-08:00

Fetch: a game whose subtle intricacies confound young Cabot:

Playmates

2010-11-13T05:21:00.000-08:00

Remember earlier this year when we first got Cabot and he'd try to play with his big brother? Didn't it seem that it was always Cabot that ended up getting knocked over?

That hasn't changed.

The Rag Doll Defense(tm)

2010-09-30T17:49:00.000-07:00

Puppy Cabot has recently discovered the Rag Doll Defense for those inconvenient times when he's faced with a command to remove himself from a piece of furniture after he has worn out his welcome.

"Cabot, down!"

"Down? Me?? Surely you can see that I have suddenly lost all of my bones and muscles and therefore could not possibly remove myself from this extremely comfortable bed. Without skeletal structure for support and musculature to provide motive force, it should be clear as day to you that I simply have no choice in the matter."

"Cabot! DOWN!"

"No, seriously. Just look at me! I'm lying here like a mass of hairy Jello. Why, the only way that I could conceivably be moved would be for you to... HEY! PUT ME DOWN!!"

Cabot Goes To (a) College!

2010-09-18T13:59:00.000-07:00

I'm sure I'm not the first parent to go through this, nor will I be the last. I'm assured in my knowledge that I'm not the first because I put my parents through the same thing. When I was co-pilot Egg's age, I too had no idea where I wanted to go to college, or to be totally honest, whether I wanted to go at all. At that age it seems like you have done nothing but go to school; the prospect of even more doesn't really garner excitement. As with my father and me, I am the one pushing her to start planning for where she will matriculate next and what she wants to do with her life once forcibly ejected from the warm nest of public high school. When pressed, she vacillates between nursing, physical or mental therapy, and going pro on Facebook.

I think the latter is her preference.

I figure for at least the first two years of a four year program, there's not much difference between the core classes required for nursing or therapy. Anatomy, ethics, chemistry, and classes in managing third-party or government payers are foundational to both. With that in mind, I've been looking at nursing programs on her behalf. One of the locations I'm looking at is Miami University. To begin with, it satisfies the number one requirement: it's not THE Ohio $tate University. Egg has what I have taken to calling a Higher Education Donut Hole. Much as with the "donut hole" more commonly referred to in reference to the Medicare Part D program, it refers to areas where coverage is available. It's actually an inverse donut hole: she has to go somewhere outside of Columbus but inside Ohio. Note that when I say "has to" that it's just like when I say she "has to" help mow the lawn; it by no means conveys any type of actual authority on my part to enforce such a command.

Anyway...

I flew out and visited the Miami University campus in Oxford Ohio last year and found it to be quite pleasant. Very collegiate, architecturally appropriate, and a few nice restaurants. I was more or less sold on the idea but further research showed that the nursing program is only offered at two regional campuses, one of which is in Middletown. I initially balked at that idea, thinking that there was no way we would pay that level of tuition only to have her attending classes miles from the town of Oxford. Once I looked a little further into it, though, I discovered that the tuition is commensurately lower at the regional campus.

Well then. Now you're talking my language!

Parallel to my thinking that I'd visit the campus this weekend, I was also trying to track down an outfit that offers dual instruction in a Stearman. Having lunched with Dr. Stan last week and gotten the idea into my head that I'd like to fly one at some point, I poked around on the internet for awhile trying to see where I'd have to go and what I'd have to pay to try it out.

At first it looked like I'd have to travel as far as Florida or Maryland and pay over $300 an hour for the experience (and that's not happening!!) but I eventually came across a link to Red Stewart airport. They have a Stearman that they offer dual in for around $200 an hour, including the instructor. Better yet, I could get a shorter ride for $80. That seemed perfect! Now I've been around the internet long enough to know that while web pages may last forever, the things offered on them may not. I first had to verify that they still had the Stearman. I happen to know of a flying blogger that does all of his flying out of Red Stewart and figured that surely he would have mentioned that Stearman at some point on his blog if it was still there. He had, and it is.

Red Stewart Airport is close to Middletown, so I thought I could combine a trip to Red Stewart for a flight in the Stearman with the flight to Middletown to visit the campus. Unfortunately, I had waited too long. When I called to book my flight in the Stearman, I was informed that the schedule was already full. Not to worry - they told me that they will fly on any day when the temps are over 45 degrees. I still have time to get it done.

Without the Red Stewart stop, I was able to fly direct to Middletown. That meant that I could take a flying buddy with me. There'd be a lot of walking (Google maps reported a walking distance of 2.2 miles each way from the airport to the campus) but I knew just the guy that would be thrilled to take a walk that long.

Middletown is southwest of Columbus, and our route took us directly over KilKare raceway where my brother races his Nascar Modified.

It was perfect flying weather. High pressure and reasonably low temperatures make the engine and the wings happy, and the clear, smooth skies and calm air make the pilot happy. These conditions are perfect for flying, but they do present a challenge. With no wind to speak of, uncontrolled airports become difficult to operate in and out of because there is no clear deciding factor regarding which runway to use. That, and they bring out a lot of traffic.

To make matters worse, Middletown is in a region that I don't much like flying through anyway; there are quite a few airports in the area, both large and small. Traffic becomes a big issue in that area no matter what the weather. Middletown also presents its own unique challenge in that they use left traffic for runway 5, but right traffic for runway 23. What that means is that pilots flying the right downwind for 23 are on the same side of the airport and heading directly at pilots flying the left downwind for runway 5. With the winds being reported as "calm," there is a very real risk of a head on collision on downwind if two pilots choose differently on the question of which runway is preferred.

And if that's not enough, there is a high-end sky diving outfit that operates there. They're up and down all day in a pair of Cessna Caravans, dropping jumpers right on the middle of the airport. The end result of all this is that Cabot and I would have to be on the lookout for large jets, airplanes headed right at us on downwind (and, by extension, on the runway), and falling human bodies. Wow! That's a lot of responsibility for a nine month old puppy!

As we were approaching the airport a twin Cessna reported something or the other having to do with runway 23, which was concerning given that we were entering the downwind to runway 5. The Unicom was a nightmare of the high pitched squeals of two radios transmitting at once and a long-winded individual telling his life's story as he worked his way laboriously through a landing at Blue Ash, so the second half of the Cessna's transmission was lost to me. I tried to get the guy to answer my "What did you say???" calls, but he was oblivious. It all worked out and the landing was uneventful other than being a bit bouncy.

I blame Cabot. He stares at me. It's discomfiting.

Just after we landed, some of the parachuters did too.

The walk to the campus had been planned for me by Google Maps, which has a "find a way for me to get there by foot" function.

I had used the Google StreetView feature to determine that there were sidewalks the entire way. I've often found that what looked like an easy walk on the map is anything but because it ends up being on a narrow, busy road with no sidewalks. This walk was 90% through residential neighborhoods. Cabot was very well behaved on the leash.

As we walked, I evaluated the neighborhood as a place for Egg to live. The regional campus does not have dorms; if she elected to go to school there, she would have to have a place to live. That might work out well; I saw this well-groomed house for sale.

They're asking $82,500 for it. Buy it with a 20% downpayment on a 30 year fixed and the payment is $350 per month, plus insurance and the like. A roommate could halve that cost. Four years down the road, sell it. Would that be cheaper that living in an apartment or a dorm at some other school? Maybe. It seemed worth thinking about, and that's exactly what I was doing until I was distracted by this sign.

Really?? "Your juvenile judge?" We haven't got enough juveniles in government already?

It was a pretty long walk, so it came as a great relief when I finally saw this sign. Cabot was equally thrilled when I read it to him.

The walk was up a fairly steep hill at that time, and at the crest of the hill we found our goal.

Our climb up the hill was wasted; the campus road heads right back down. The first sign of being on a campus was this statue.

How was that statue an indication that we were on a college campus? Easy, it was there because the subject was a rich man that gave huge amounts of money and/or land to the university. Had we been in a public park, it would have been a politician that had done the same, albeit with someone else's money.

We worked our way down the hill and past the university buildings.

When we reached the bottom of the hill, I realized two things. First, in twenty-first century America our civilization has advanced to the degree that we no longer provide publicly-accessible water fountains. Cabot was panting up a storm and seemed very, very thirsty. I had brought a plastic bag with me to fill with water to give him a drink, but had come across no source of water. My second realization was that we had reached a dead end.

The prospect of retracing our steps to the top of the hill was not pleasant. I decided to keep going on a gravel path that continued on past the end of the paved road and see if it looped back around to where we had come it. Luckily, by doing so I discovered water!

I ran some water into the bag for Cabot to drink from, but he refused to do it. Nothing but tap water will do for him, I suppose.

Elitist.

We kept going and soon found a trail that looked like it headed back up to the road we had climbed earlier.

It did, and a little more than half an hour later we were back at the airport. I had packed a fabric fold-up water bowl for Cabot and a bottle of tap water to pour into it. He was much more receptive of that! Spoiled rotten, I figure.

Oh, and I was taunted about my failure to get a ride in a Stearman. For the second time in as many weeks, I was sharing the ramp with one.

He didn't share the panache that Dr. Stan had. Somehow blue hearing protectors just aren't the same as a leather helmet and jacket. Still, it sure looks like fun!

Cabot was one tired puppy, but he stayed awake long enough to enjoy the flight home.

Once we got home, though, there was only one place he wanted to be.

I soon joined him.

Cabot's First Flight

2010-08-01T12:37:00.001-07:00

Nothing makes me want to fly like seeing thousands of other people doing it. We got up at 0130 local for our drive back from Oshkosh on Saturday, the net result of which being that we got home at a reasonable time but I was far too tired to consider flying. This morning dawned bright and clear and that could only mean one thing: I had to get the mowing done. After that, though, I could finally get back into the air. As always, I need some form of justification to make the fuel cost worthwhile, no matter how thin of an excuse it is. Today it was that I needed to fill the tanks over at MadCo. And, as long as I was going on such a short flight, to introduce Cabot to his Mutt Muffs.

We grabbed his harness, the muffs, and a camera. I also still had four cases of oil in the car that needed to be delivered to the hangar. All in all, it was looking like a wonderful confluence of reasons to go to the airport. As is often the case, Cabot was ready and willing with no more than the rattle of his leash to tell him we were heading somewhere.

Once at the hangar, I put him in his harness and lifted him into the plane. He isn't particularly fond of being picked up, but with the harness it's just like picking up a brief case. Grab him by the "handle" and up he goes. I strapped him in, gave him a treat, and let him sit there while I pulled the plane out and did the preflight. Once we were just about ready to go, I put on the Mutt Muffs (No, not on myself. On him, silly) for the first time. I gave him another treat in hopes that he will equate having those things on his head with getting dog treats. I climbed aboard and brought down the canopy. I started the engine and we sat there for a few minutes while he got comfortable. I had the harness belted in tight enough that he really couldn't move around much. Once he was happily situated, I called the tower for taxi clearance.

At the end of the runway I did my normal last-chance-to-back-out run-up of the engine, and Cabot seemed fine with it. I tried to get a picture of him but my preflight inspection hadn't gone far enough; someone had left the camera on and the battery was dead. No problem - I'd just make do with the camera in my cell phone.

I couldn't pay much attention to him during the takeoff, but once we were climbing away from the airport I was able to look to see how he was doing. He was just looking out the window, more than likely thinking that the animals below looked just like chew toys.

I was surprised to see that he hadn't knocked the Mutt Muffs off. Good boy! He does, however, have a somewhat awkwardly shaped head and the muffs have an annoying tendency to slide off the back.

It's only a few minutes over to MadCo and he was calm the entire way. In fact, the whole thing was kind of anticlimactic. I thought for sure that he would need attention and comforting, but he was calm as could be. Calmer, as it turns out, than a lot of humans who have flown with me.

We landed for gas and Cabot experienced his first of my style of landing. It was a surprisingly good landing considering that I haven't flown for a couple of weeks, but the air was very calm and that usually helps. Still, it was one of those very rare landings where it is so smooth that you can feel the wheels start to spin as they scuff on the runway. How nice to make a good first impression!

We re-arranged his muffs while we were on the ground and got him turned around the other way so he'd be more comfortable. The takeoff was a little less sprightly now that we had another 120 pounds worth of fuel on board, but none of that mattered to Cabot. He was having a great time!

He snuggled up against me and enjoyed our ride back to Bolton where, against all odds, I made another landing as good as the first one.

My boy 60 Watt

2010-07-11T16:54:00.000-07:00

I was calling him 100 Watt, but then I realized how dim he is. Just kidding - he's really a bright boy. He has a face that just lights up when he smiles. We've really taken a shine to him.

A Rite of Passage

2010-07-09T05:20:00.000-07:00

A rite of passage is a ritual event that marks a person's progress from one status to another. It is a universal phenomenon which can show anthropologists what social hierarchies, values and beliefs are important in specific cultures. Rites of passage are often ceremonies surrounding events such as other milestones within puberty, coming of age, marriage and death. Initiation ceremonies such as baptism, confirmation and bar or bat Mitzvahare considered important rites of passage for persons of their respective religions.

For male dogs? Well, it has more to do with a small elective surgery to make them, uhhh, a little less male. While it is by no means entertaining for the dog in question, it can be quite amusing for those not directly affected.

I had the vet give me a list of other elective surgeries we can have done later just for the comedic effect. Is that wrong?

Cabot's Fathers Day

2010-06-21T14:14:00.001-07:00

It wasn't intended to be, of course. I like puppy Cabot well enough, I suppose, and he will fly with me someday when he gets over the canine version of the Terrible Twos, but I don't view him as "the son I never had" or anything as emotionally crippled as that. No, the plan was to fly to DarkeCo (KVES) and pick up my own father before continuing on to Muncie, IN to have lunch at a new entry in the never-ending chain of restaurants that have tried to make a go of it in that particular location. The menu looked as if it would be worth the trip. Bacon and Sweet Onion Alfredo? You had me at "bacon."

The Sunday weather, which heretofore this year has consistently found weekends to be the perfect outlet for a week's worth of suppressed lacrimonious outbursts, exceeded all expectations and defied all forecasts. In a word, it was splendid. The preflight DUATS session was nothing more than a formality, what with the Weather-out-the-Window fairly strutting its splendor. There is the question of NOTAMs, though, and one really ought look in order to keep the whole deal legal in the eyes of the all-knowing, all-powerful FAA. Just in case the need for a little CYA comes along, really.

So there I was, scanning down through the page after page of NOTAMs, mostly to ensure that Dear Leader had successfully repaired back to the cloistered ramparts of Washington DC and taken his onerous TFR with him, when I happened across this:

Versailles OH (Darke County) [VES]: June NOTAM #283 issued by Dayton OH [DAY]

Aerodrome closed except prior permission required 937 - 417 - 5907

There's not much you can say to that other than "Awww, crap."

Now my boy Cabot may just be a young whelp, barely dry behind the ears, but even he can tell you that there's more than one way to gut a $6.95 puppy toy. While flying would have been preferable, I was not about to allow the focus on flying take precedent over the goal of the day which, as we all understand, was to sacrifice some measure of refined petroleum in pursuit of comestibles. Sure, the letter of the agenda could be met through the simple expedient of cooking my lunch on my propane cooktop, but when it comes to sacrificing the efforts of billions of diatoms, my altar of choice is and will always be a motorized vehicle. And, as millions of penguins have discovered before me, if you can't fly, you drive. Or in their case, walk, but you get the point. Cabot and I would take the Miata.

I have a nice route that I take that avoids highways and almost all towns. It's scenic and fun to drive, although it can be marred by getting caught behind a slow poke. Being still somewhat early on a Sunday morning, we made it more than halfway before encountering any kind of obstructing vehicle. Much to my chagrin and Cabot's enormous delight, the blockage in question took the form of a very recently used manure spreader. Keep in mind that one of the defining traits of a convertible is that you can see, hear, and smell everything when the top is down. Cabot, who clearly felt that our time spent drafting in the malodorous trail of the farm implement was the very highlight of the day, was as annoyed at our eventual passing of it as I was overjoyed. Only to catch up with this behemoth just a handful of miles later.

Note that the brake lights are illuminated. They must have been on some kind of automatic flashing circuit since they came on every 50 feet or so. Naturally this was a nice, curvy part of road with double yellow lines prohibiting the resumption of fun driving. Not even Cabot found this in the least bit amusing. It went on for miles. But, as they say, this too shall be passed, and we eventually were able to get around it.

It could have been worse. We managed to avoid the worst of the equine rush hour.

Although I think Cabot may have enjoyed tailing behind one of those for awhile, given his odd tastes.

The rest of Cabot's day was spent trying to move fast enough to negate any advantage the auto-focus on my camera may have had over him. For the most part, he succeeded admirably. It was nearly impossible to get a picture of him playing that was anywhere near in focus.

He sure was worn out when we got home. It was a full half an hour before he was rested enough to get back to surgically removed the squeaky heart of his puppy toys.

"The Look"

2010-05-21T07:41:00.000-07:00

It just screams "I want something," doesn't it?

Cabot shares his opinion on the topic of car racing

2010-05-17T13:34:00.000-07:00

He thinks it's boring.

It keeps him quiet and out of trouble, though, and that ain't nuthin'.

Cabot's Day Out

2010-04-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

I have big plans for Cabot, and those plans include flying with me in my tiny, noisy airplane. Cabot appears on track for maintaining a small enough figure to actually fit in the plane; his big (and I mean BIG) brother Hogarth has not been able to fly with me since I traded the plane with a back seat big enough for him for a plane with no back seat at all.

In addition to being small enough, any dog that flies with me has to be comfortable with wearing a harness. That's safety thing, but possibly not for the reason you think; it's more about keeping him from interfering with the controls than it is about restraining him in a crash. Me, I'm all about protecting my own posterior.

Fortunately, I have a small, noisy training environment to use as a simulator in which to train young Cabot: my Miata. I knew he wasn't going to like it, so I needed to find a way to make it worthwhile for him. And what could be better than a trip to the farm? Running, playing, infinite opportunities for marking territory, and smells, smells, SMELLS! Canine heaven.

He fussed for the first 20 minutes, but once we got on the highway he settled in for a nap. He got a little antsy for the last 15 minutes, but once we got there all was forgotten. We sniffed, we played fetch, we vomited up our breakfast (thank goodness he didn't do that in the car!), and we met a huge, scary horse!

The trip home was much, much easier. He was so tired that he conked out as soon as we started driving. All things considered, I'm calling this a huge success!

No, he's not far-sighted....

2010-04-03T06:49:00.000-07:00

Cabot went to the vet yesterday for his third set of shots. So much for a "free" puppy; he's over $400 into vet visits alone. The costs aren't limited to shots and worm checks, of course. There's also damage to the house and its contents to calculate. For example, he can't seem to see the screen in the screen door out to the back patio. He runs into it constantly. Or, more accurately, he runs through. A few weeks ago in his haste to get back into the house for his port-potty treat, he tore right through the screen.

After putting it off for as long as possible, I finally decided that it needed to be fixed. There's a Lowes right up the street that I would normally have gone to for repair parts, but I've been in a bit of a snit over the window blinds issue. When we first moved into the house, we bought a dozen (or more) wood blinds in a nice, complimentary Oak color. Hogarth was much younger back then, and he too did his fair share of damage to the abode. Chewing some of the blinds was his contribution to the depreciation of the homestead. As he would mar a set of blinds, we'd move them to the garage windows where they were less noticeable.

As the blinds aged, a couple sets of them simply wore out and the closing mechanism failed. Unfortunately, the "spare" blinds in the garage were not suitable for use in the house, so I had to go to Lowes for replacements. The first set that broke were easily replaced, but just a couple of weeks later when another set died, things weren't quite as easy. In the interim, Lowes had replaced their entire inventory of Oak blinds with Walnut, thereby orphaning entire households of Oak blinds all over the city. I tried three different locations before giving up in disgust. Frankly, I was pretty pissed off at Lowes.

When it came time to replace the screen, I took my business to Home Depot instead. I went well prepared - I took a sample of the rubber tube that holds the screen in place ("spline," in the parlance) and a piece of the old screen. It was good that I brought a piece of the spline as there were numerous sizes to choose from. What would have been gooder would have been bringing my reading glasses too. I'm quite far-sighted as it turns out. With my inadequately acute vision, I wasn't able to tell whether my sample was closer to the .125 diameter spline or the .160 diameter spline, the only two options that were even in the neighborhood of what I needed. I opted for the .160 since it looked like the .125 was a little smaller. I also decided to spend a little more on the more expensive aluminum screen over the fiberglass variant, thinking it would be the stronger of the two and I really only wanted to do this once.

Come time to install said spline and I found that it was going to be quite the battle. I really had to bear down on the spline installation tool to get the stuff into the channel to hold in the new screen. It took quite an effort to get only ten inches of what would ultimately a couple of hundred into place. Such an effort, in fact, that the tool slipped and ripped right through the new screen. Argh!

In the interest of personal convenience, I set aside my petulant pout against Lowes long enough to go get more screen material. Interestingly, they had a variant of spline that had been unavailable at Home Depot: .140 diameter. Hmmm. Perhaps that would work better than the recalcitrant .160 size.

As I was checking out, the cashier asked me if I had found everything I was looking for. I replied in the affirmative, and shared that this was my second time buying this stuff as my first effort had gone amiss.

"Oh, did you know that they will install that for you at Home Depot?"

No. No I hadn't known that.

The new screen replacement went well and we had a nice, new screen on the patio door. Until a couple of days ago, that is. Cabot ran through it again.

This prompted me to ask the vet if perhaps young Cabot is far-sighted.

"No," he replied, "it's more likely that he's just stupid."

He said it jokingly, but as we all know, all good jokes contain a germ of truth. I suspect that this may be one of those cases.

Other than that and a constant insistence upon always, always, ALWAYS having something, ANYTHING!!, in his mouth, Cabot is maturing very quickly. In fact, he got his "big boy" collar yesterday.

(Chewing mulch)

(Chewing mulch)

(Chewing on a clump of dirt with grass attached)

(Chewing on a twig)

And he sure does look up to his big brother!

(Chewing on Hogarth)

Buddies

2010-03-22T16:10:00.000-07:00

The Little Helper

2010-03-13T15:41:00.000-08:00

There just comes a time when the insatiable play appetite of a puppy becomes too much for everyone in the family, including the other pets, to deal with. After having one of those days in which the only that wasn't a trial was a tribulation, help from any quarter is appreciated.

For those occasions, modern technology is there to help:

Did it work? Did the automated puppy playmate manage to wear Cabot out?

Yep!

Do you know why puppies are so cute? It's so you won't strangle them!

Cabot has cuteness by the bucket, and boy, does he ever need it!

He's irresistible!

Tail chasing

2010-02-27T09:18:00.001-08:00

Cabot discovers that it's easier to chase Hogarth's tail than his own:

Cabot meets his cousin Kodi

2010-02-22T03:36:00.000-08:00

Cabot wore Kodi out eventually, but early on it was a pretty one-sided fight:

Cabot will get a re-match once he bulks up a bit!

Hogarth likes playing with Cabot. A lot!

2010-02-20T06:36:00.000-08:00

New Pix

2010-02-20T06:32:00.000-08:00

Can Cabot come out to play? Or at least stop playing with my favorite ball??

2010-02-14T05:26:00.001-08:00

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.