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REGGIE THE
BLACK LAB
A fictional
story that will still make you tear up
They told me the big black Lab's
name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen.
The shelter was clean, had a no-kill policy and the people were really
friendly.
I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the
small college town, people
were so cordial, welcoming and genuine. Everyone waves when you pass
them on the street. The atmosphere was electric and I was beginning to
think this move was good for me.
Yet, something was missing as I
attempted to settle in to my new life here. I was alone and
thought a dog would make a good companion...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 the ad
posted.
I stopped by the shelter and the owners 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. I looked into an area where
Reggie was lying on a mat with a real sad look on his face.
At first, I thought the shelter had
misjudged me when they said I was a good candidate to adopt Reggie. They
convinced me I was the one for Reggie so I decided to take him home. I
was handed his things consisting of a dog pad, a bag of toys and
almost all 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.
I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that.
"Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your
previous owner has any advice."
To Whomever 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. 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 he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually
always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there.
Hasn't done that yet, but he keeps trying. Doesn't matter where you
throw them, he'll bound after them, so be careful. Don't do it by
any roads.
Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones ---"sit,"
"stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand
signals, too: He knows "ball" and "food" and
"bone" and "treat" like nobody's business. Feeding
schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the
brand. He's up on his shots. 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. 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.
And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you...His
name's not 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. But if someone is reading this ...well it means that
his new owner should know his real name.
His real name is "Tank." Because, that is what I drive.
I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie"
available for adoption until they received word from my company
commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings and there
was no one I could've left Tank with while I was deployed. It was my
only real request of the Army...upon my deployment to Iraq, that they
make one phone call to the shelter in the "event" of my
demise. The call would advise the shelter that Tank could be put up for
adoption.
Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was
headed, directly into battle. He said he'd do it personally. And if
you're 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 terrorist 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. I had hoped to survive and to be coming home to my
faithful dog.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this
letter off at the shelter. 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 into the next room. And when he came back, he had
three tennis balls in his mouth.
If you can read this without getting a lump in your
throat or a tear in your eye, you just ain't right.
To ALL the veterans, I THANK YOU for your Service to our great County!!
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