They told me the
big black Lab's name was Reggie,
as I looked at him lying in his
pen. The shelter was clean,
no-kill, and the people really
friendly.
I'd only been
in the area for six months, but
everywhere I went in the small
college town, people were
welcoming and open. Everyone
waves when you pass them on the
street.
But something
was still missing as I attempted
to settle in to my new life here,
and I thought a dog couldn't
hurt. Give me someone to talk
to. And I had just seen Reggie's
advertisement on the local news.
The shelter said they had received
numerous calls right after, but
they said the people who had come
down to see him just didn't look
like "Lab people," whatever that
meant. They must've thought I
did.
But at first, I
thought the shelter had misjudged
me in giving me Reggie and his
things, which consisted of a dog
pad, bag of toys almost all of
which were brand new tennis balls,
his dishes and a sealed letter
from his previous owner.
See, Reggie and
I didn't really hit it off when we
got home. We struggled for two
weeks (which is how long the
shelter told me to give him to
adjust to his new home). Maybe it
was the fact that I was trying to
adjust, too. Maybe we were too
much alike.
I saw
the sealed envelope. I had
completely forgotten about
that.
"Okay, Reggie,"
I said out loud, "let's see if
your previous owner has any
advice."
To
Whomever Gets My Dog: Well,
I can't say that I'm happy
you're reading this, a
letter I told the shelter
could only be opened by
Reggie's new owner. I'm not
even happy writing it. He
knew something was
different.
So let
me tell you about my Lab in
the hopes that it will help
you bond with him and he
with you. First, he loves
tennis balls. The more the
merrier. Sometimes I think
he 's part squirrel, the way
he hoards them. He usually
always has two in his mouth,
and he tries to get a third
in there. Hasn't done it
yet. Doesn't matter where
you throw them, he'll bound
after them, so be careful.
Don't do it by
any roads.
Next,
commands. Reggie knows the
obvious ones ---"sit,"
"stay," "come," "heel." He
knows hand signals, too: He
knows "ball" and "food" and
"bone" and "treat" like
nobody's business. Feeding
schedule: twice a day,
regular store-bought stuff;
the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his
shots. Be forewarned: Reggie
hates the vet. Good luck
getting him in the car. I don't
know how he knows when it's time
to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give
him some time. It's only been
Reggie and me for his whole
life. He's gone everywhere with
me, so please include him on
your daily car rides if you
can. He sits well in the
backseat, and he doesn't bark or
complain. He just loves to be
around people, and me most
especially.
And
that's why I need to share
one more bit of info with
you... His name's not
Reggie. He's a smart dog,
he'll get used to it and
will respond to it, of that
I have no doubt. But I just
couldn't bear to give them
his real name. But if
someone is reading this
...well it means that his
new owner should know his
real name. His real name is
"Tank." Because, that is
what I drive. I told the
shelter that they couldn't
make "Reggie" available for
adoption until they received
word from my company
commander. You see, my
parents are gone, I have no
siblings, no one I could've
left Tank with ... and it
was my only real request of
the Army upon my deployment
to Iraq, that they make one
phone call to the shelter
...in the "event" ... to
tell them that Tank could be
put up for adoption.
Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy,
too, and he knew where my
platoon was headed. He said
he'd do it personally. And
if you're reading this, then
he made good on his word.
Tank
has been my family for the
last six years, almost as
long as the Army has been my
family. And now I hope and
pray that you make him part
of your family, too, and
that he will adjust and come
to love you the same way he
loved me. If I have to give
up Tank to keep those
terrible people from coming
to the US I am glad to have
done so. He is my example
of service and of love. I
hope I honored him by my
service to my country and
comrades. All right, that's
enough. I deploy this
evening and have to drop
this letter off at the
shelter. Maybe I'll peek in
on him and see if he finally
got that third tennis ball
in his mouth. Good luck
with Tank. Give him a good
home, and give him an extra
kiss goodnight - every night
- from me.
I
folded the letter and
slipped it back in the
envelope. Sure, I had heard
of Paul Mallory, everyone in
town knew him, even new
people like me. Local kid,
killed in Iraq a few months
ago and posthumously earning
the Silver Star when he gave
his life to save three
buddies.
Flags had been
at half-mast all summer.
I
leaned forward in my chair
and rested my elbows on my
knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said
quietly. The dog's head
whipped up, his ears cocked
and his eyes bright. <mime-attachment.jpg>"C'mere
boy."
He was instantly
on his feet, his nails clicking
on the hardwood floor. He sat
in front of me, his head tilted,
searching for the name he hadn't
heard in months. "Tank," I
whispered. His tail swished.
I kept
whispering his name, over and
over, and each time, his ears
lowered, his eyes softened, and
his posture relaxed as a wave of
contentment just seemed to flood
him. I stroked his ears, rubbed
his shoulders, buried my face
into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now,
Tank, just you and me. Your old
pal gave you to me." Tank
reached up and licked my cheek.
"So whatdasay we
play some ball?" His ears
perked again.
"Yeah? Ball?
You likes that? Ball?"
Tank tore from
my hands and disappeared into
the next room. And when he came
back, he had three tennis balls
in his mouth.
If you
can read this without
getting a lump in your
throat or a tear in your
eye, you just ain't right.
==============================
============================
"The true
soldier fights not because he
hates what is in front of him,
but because he loves what is
behind him." G.K. Chesterton
To ALL the
veterans, I THANK YOU for your
Service to our great County!!
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