They told me the big black Labās name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen.. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. Iād 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 couldnāt hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggieās 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 didnāt look like āLab people,ā whatever that meant. They mustāve 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 didnāt 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 ā he wouldnāt go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes.
I guess I didnāt really think heād need all his old stuff, that Iād get him new things once he settled in. But it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasnāt going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like āsitā and āstayā and ācomeā and āheel,ā and heād follow them ā when he felt like it.
He never really seemed to listen when I called his name ā sure, heād look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then heād just go back to doing whatever.
When Iād ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasnāt 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 couldnāt wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone 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 ādamn dog probably hid it on me.ā
Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelterās number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelterā¦I tossed the pad in Reggieās
direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm Iād seen since bringing him home. But then I called, āHey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and Iāll give you a treat.ā Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction ā maybe āglaredā is more accurate ā and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down ā¦. with his back to me.
Well, thatās 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.
āOkay, Reggie,ā I said out loud, āletās see if your previous owner has any advice.ā
To Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I canāt say that Iām happy youāre reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggieās new owner. Iām not even happy writing it. If youāre 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 timeā¦ itās like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrongā¦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 heās part
squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasnāt done it yet. Doesnāt matter where you throw them, heāll bound after it, so be careful ā really donāt do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. The shelter staff probably already told you, but Iāll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones ā āsit,ā āstay,ā ācome,ā āheel.ā He knows hand signals: ābackā to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and āoverā if you put your hand out right or left. āShakeā for shaking water off, and āpawā for a high-five. He does ādownā when he feels like lying down ā I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows āballā and āfoodā and āboneā and ātreatā like nobodyās business. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog. I trained Reggie with small food treats.
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.
Heās up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; theyāll make sure to send you reminders for when heās due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet.
Good luck getting him in the car. I donāt know how he knows when itās time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. Iāve never been married, so itās only been Reggie and me for his whole life. Heās gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesnāt 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 thatās why I need to share one more bit of info with youā¦.
His nameās not Reggie. I donāt know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie.
Heās a smart dog, heāll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldnāt 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 Iād never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everythingās fine. But if someone else is reading it, well ā¦ well it means that his new owner should know his real name. Itāll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe youāll even notice a change in his demeanor if heās been giving you problems. even though, frankly, Iām just writing it for my dog. I couldnāt imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family ā¦ but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. His real name is āTankā, because that is what I drive.
Again, if youāre reading this and youāre from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldnāt make āReggieā available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I couldāve left Tank with ā¦ and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone call.. the shelter ā¦ in the āeventā ā¦ 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 heād do it personally. And if youāre reading this, then he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting downright depressing.
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 take with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those
who would do terrible things ā¦ and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I have to give up Tank in order to do it, 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, thatās enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I donāt think Iāll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe Iāll 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 ā every night ā 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. āHey, Tank,ā I said quietly.
The dogās head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.
āCāmere boy.ā
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 hadnāt heard in months.
āTank,ā 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.
āItās me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me.ā Tank reached up and licked my cheek. āSo whatdaya say we play some ball?ā
His ears perked again.. āYeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?ā
Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room.
And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
