To Whoever Gets My Dog

This story is dedicated to all those who gave their lives to secure the freedoms that we all enjoy living here in America.


To Whoever Gets My Dog


They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie
as I looked at him lying in his pen. the shelter
was clean, 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.
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 unpacked
boxes. 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 my direction after the fourth of 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 cellphone 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
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 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 to 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 took
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 had
to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have
done so. He was 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. And when he came back......
he had three tennis balls in his mouth.