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
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 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 cell phone 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
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
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.
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
And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.