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.
I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. āOkay, Reggie,ā I said out loud, āletās see if your previous owner has any advice.ā
____________ _________ _________ _________
To Whomever 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. 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 heās part squirrel, the way he hoards 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 them, so be careful. Donāt do it by any roads.
Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones ā-āsit,ā āstay,ā ācome,ā āheel.ā
He knows hand signals, too: He knows āballā and āfoodā and āboneā and ātreatā like nobodyās business.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
Heās up on his shots. 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. 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.
And thatās why I need to share one more bit of info with youā¦His nameās not 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. But if someone is reading this ā¦ well it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is āTank.ā Because, that is what I drive.
I told the shelter that they couldnāt make āReggieā available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I couldāve 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 ā¦ in the āeventā ā¦ 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 heād do it personally. And if youāre 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, thatās enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. 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 - 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.
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 into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
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