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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.
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 "damn 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 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 knkows 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 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.
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.
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.
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 "damn 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 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 knkows 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 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.
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.
