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 new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe
we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls - he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got
tossed in with all of my other unpacked
boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he
settled in. but it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and
"come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to
listen when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go
back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him
and he resented it, I could tell.
The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for
my cellphone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I
also mumbled, rather cynically, that the
"dog probably hid it on me."
Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the
shelter.. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen
since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead,
he sort of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate - and then gave a discontented sigh and
flopped down. With his back to me.
Well, that's not going to do it either, I
thought. And I punched the shelter phone number.
But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that, too.. "Okay,
Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice.".........
_______________________________________
To
Whoever 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. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride
with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and
toys before and set them by the back door before a trip,
but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong... which is why I have to go to try to
make it right.
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 hordes 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 it, so be
careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him
dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious
ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals:
"back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or
left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He
does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and
"food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.
I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in
the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots.
Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due.
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.
I've never been married, so 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.
Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new.
And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....
His name's not Reggie.
I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was 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. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over
to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and
tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well... well it means that his new
owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change
in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is Tank.
Because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that
they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they
received word from my company commander. 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 the the
shelter... in the "event"... to tell
them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel 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.
Well, this letter is getting to be downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just
writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family. but still,
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 and that he will adjust and
come to love you the same way he loved me.
That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do
something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things... and to keep those terrible
people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was 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. I don't think I'll say another
good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. 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.
Thank you, Paul Mallory
_____________________________________
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.
"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 whatdaya say we play some ball? His ears
perked again.
"Yeah? Ball? You like that?
Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room.
And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
