A Dog Named Reggie

I'm sure that most dog lovers and others have read this story so it's not an original, but there is no link.

 It's a touching story, but it comes with a warning... serious Kleenex Alert

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 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 knkows 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 
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.