They told me the big black Lab’s name was Reggie,
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 unpackedboxes.
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 mydirection after
the fourth or 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 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 “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 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 thevet. 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 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 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 take 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 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, 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. When he came
back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth