Late one dark, stormy night in Nassau, as I readied myself to grill steaks for dinner on my back porch, I noticed a shadowy movement under my daughter's plastic toy picnic bench to the side of me.


I quickly turned, only to find a pitiful potcake(dog) cowering in fear, and shivering from the drizzle that had begun to fall. His mangy skin stuck to his bones, and he had some kind of fresh scrape--like pavement burn--along his front left side. His light brownish-black fur was dirty and sparse, and nearly completely gone from the length of his tail.


He was scared, and ran to the side of the house, looking for a way to escape the strangers taking an interest in him. I don't know how he got into the yard in the first place, but he couldn't find a quick way out and was stuck.


We took pity on Mr. Potcake and managed to coax him back onto the patio, where I gave him a piece of balony. He inhaled it. Three more pieces of balony and two bowls of milk later, he decided that maybe we were ok to hang out with.


We provided him some shelter from the storm (my daughter's small-person-sized doll house) and turned in for the night. I never expected to see him again.


However, in the morning--a bright and sunny Bahamas summer morning--the dog was waiting for us at the sliding door, still somewhat apprehensive, but not so hungry any longer.


The kids were ecstatic when they woke up. A dog! Their dream had come true!


When the subject had come up previously, my wife made it known that she preferred a smallish type dog to a Potcake. She had even gone so far as to look at some smallish pure breed puppies of the sort she wanted. I had scoffed at the idea when she told me how much smallish-ness costs.


When we discovered this mangy canine on our porch, she just looked at me and shook her head. I think she knew that the divine hand of Providence had once again spoiled her plans.


But I wanted a Potcake for several reasons: 1) We could get one for free; 2) They are pre-programmed for self-sufficiency; and 3) They will defend their owners to their last breath.


We fed Mr. Potcake that morning, and he ate with reckless abandon once again. However, the mange on his skin was driving him crazy and he chewed his tail so much it began to bleed. I decided that the kids and I needed to take the dog to the Bahamas Humane Society for a checkup and shots, if necessary. So we put him in the car, drove to the Humane Society, and got him checked out.


I suddenly realized that once you shell out cash for medical services on behalf of an animal, you also sign an invisible contract of sorts: I had now become the proud owner of a slightly damaged seven-month-old Potcake.


Three needles, a bottle of liquid vitamins, some pills, shampoo, a tube of Neosporin, and one new leash later, the kids and I were back in the car heading home with the newest member of our family.


But now came the tough task of naming him. One thought Rocky would be a good name. Another wanted to name the thing Apple. We finally settled on the name Sushi, in honor of one of my wife's favorite foods.


However, when I announced this name to Gooner Dave of Big Blog fame, he suggested that we refine our first decision and name the dog Nobu, rather than just Sushi. (For those of you who don't know, Nobu is the name of an excellent sushi restaurant that opened a new place in Atlantis on Paradise Island about a year ago. Pricy, but excellent.)


"The name's perfect," he reasoned. "The dog is small and will likely cost you a small fortune!"


So, Nobu it is: