My dad sent me this email:
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.
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
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
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
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
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
"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
"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.