[Dailydrool] Tear Jerker

Fri Aug 14 17:21:23 PDT 2009

One of those serial emails going around follows. It is not about a basset, but it is about rescue. I sent it on to lots of friends-- any many didn't get it. One friend  emailed me and said "Well, at least the dog wasn't abused". 
The story is also about the soldier who died and tried to make sure his
best friend was taken care of, but to me it was all about what the dog went through--  You never know with a rescue what their life was like
in the past. You have to give them a chance. I read this and cried. Then I woke up in the middle of the night, thought about it, and cried. It is not horrific, but is really touching.
Really, have kleenex. (and I am sorry for the stupid marks throughout)

Tank
     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 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 > 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 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. >       >     "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. 

--
Marilyn Briggs 
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