When I turned 13 years old, a friend gave me a book called The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds. My first Weimaraner at that time was roughly one year old. I flipped through the pages of the book and oooh'd and ahh'd over the rare and unusual breeds. The page I returned to repeatedly was the Bracco Italiano. The orange and white dog, marked very similar to a German Shorthair Pointer, with a head like a bloodhound was appealing and definitely out of reach. Having 25 percent Italian heritage, I imagined, in my tweener mind, that my great-great-grandparents had one of these dogs, though they likely did not.

The image of this dog came in and out of my mind over the years. When I started college, I got my first internet connection and an IBM 486 to e-mail and surf the internet.

I plugged "Bracco Italiano" into a search engine, occasionally, when an image of the dog crossed my mind. The majority of web sites were in the Netherlands or Italy. There were no Bracco Italiano breeders, as far as I could tell, in the United States. By 2003 I found one breeder, near Telluride, and another out in Nevada. They had puppies periodically over the following years, but I knew my dog coffer was full.

In 2006 they had a litter with their imported male, Draco, and Flora who I'd always admired. The pups were born on Oct. 10, which, coincidently, was my parent's wedding anniversary. I wanted one, as irrational as it was. They had 9 males and 1 female which meant I would be adding testosterone to the house. It meant I would have another four-legged mouth to feed. It meant more vet bills, dog poop and 18 more toenails (16 + 2 dews). My final muttering questioned whether a dolce Italian tempered dog could find his place among a house full of sleek and moody German grays.

It didn't matter.

The puppies were ready to go home starting Thanksgiving day. I had to work the Friday after Thanksgiving. The weather promised to be nasty the following Saturday and Sunday. I got up Thanksgiving morning and drove 700 miles round-trip, toting a migraine headache and a stutter, to pick up my own Bracco Italiano puppy.

This description might be oversimplifying things. The trip followed several phone calls, interviews and emails. It was scary and amusing to be the "buyer" of a puppy. I usually play the role of the hard-nosed breeder, trying to scare the wrong people out of getting a Weimaraner. Weimaraners are not an easy, low maintenance dog breed. I wonder sometimes, if I could buy one of my own dogs.

Dubbed Nicco (Niccolo), the cinnamon-brown boy was immediately accepted into the household. Hazel adopted him as her own, and everyone else either ignored him or played with him. One year later Nicco is accepted by every dog and even befriended the household grumpy old man, Truman. Their relationship is reliably odd, but Nicco knows exactly when Truman's patience has expired.

Weimaraners and the Bracco Italiano have a similar purpose - hunting upland game. Nicco, however, is drama free compared to the Weimaraners. As my Mother put it, "He's the essential Italian, likes to work, have a good meal and take nap...popular with the ladies." She is his biggest fan.

Understandably, all of my Weimaraner-people friends believed I lost my marbles. When they meet the boy, they usually understand. He bums breakfast cereal off me in the morning and gives me a look of unmatched woefulness when I leave for work. Even an average Weimaraner gets disgusted and spiteful when you leave - Nicco gets depressed.

Make no mistake, Nicco has his warts too. He bays like a Bloodhound and has a nasty shriek for a whine. He is more slobbery than his gray friends and smells musky, even after a bath. He likes to dig through the laundry and walk around with his "prizes". It's cute until he hides something or plays tug-of-war with one of the Weims.

This Thanksgiving, I get to celebrate Nicco coming into my pack of wild animals and becoming one of them. With brown spots, a houndy head and endless patience, he is the odd man in.