> The best dog story ever!
>
>
>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.
>
>
>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 it yet. 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, 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 to the shelter ...
>in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for
>adoption. Luckily, my CO 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.
>
>
>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 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.
>
>
>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 have 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.
>
>
>A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made
>payable to 'The United States of America ' for an amount of 'up to
>and including their life.'
>
>That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country who
>no longer understand it.
>
>"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of
>him, but because he loves what is behind him."
>G. K. Chesterton
>
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