They told me the big black lab’s name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen.
The shelter was No-Kill, clean and the people really friendly.
I’d only been in the area 6 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 that had come down to see him didn’t seem to 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, a bag of toys which almost all 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 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 stufffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all my other unpacked boxes. I guess I really didn’t think he’d need all of 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”, “stay”, “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 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 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 my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, the damned dog probably hid it on me.
Finally, I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter’s number I also found his dog pad and other toys from the shelter. I tossed the dog pad in Reggie’s direction and he sniffed 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 outloud, “let’s see if your previous owner has any advice.”
To Whoever Gets My Dog,
Well, I can’t say 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 for 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 one in there. Hasn’t done it, yet. Doesn’t matter where you throw them, he’ll bound after them, 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 back seat 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 else.
And, that’s why I need to share one more thing 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 this 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 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 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 to 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 he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting downright depressing even though, frankly, I’m just writing it to 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 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.
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. Posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags has 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 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 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 you say we play some ball?” His ears perked up, 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.
Every person who has served in or is currently serving in our military is a hero. Every man. Every woman.
No matter what your personal beliefs and convictions. Treat them as heroes and say “Thank You” every chance you get.
If you can’t do anything else, please consider becoming a foster family for pets our military has to surrender in order to serve and protect our nation and your home.