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.
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," "come," "heel."
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 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.
____________ _________ _________ _______
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
"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.
"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of
him, but because he loves what is behind him."
G. K. Chesterton