A dog story...
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
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
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,"
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.
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.
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 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.
A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made
payable to 'The United States of America' for an amount of 'up to
and including their life.'
That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country who
no longer understand it.