<html>
<!-- BEGIN WEBMAIL STATIONERY -->
<head></head>
<body>
<!-- WEBMAIL STATIONERY noneset -->
<DIV></DIV>
<DIV>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". </DIV>
<DIV>The story is also about the soldier who died and tried to make sure his</DIV>
<DIV>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</DIV>
<DIV>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.</DIV>
<DIV>Really, have kleenex. (and I am sorry for the stupid marks throughout)</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>
<P class=MsoNormal><SPAN style="COLOR: windowtext; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">Tank<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></SPAN></P>
<P class=MsoNormal><SPAN style="COLOR: windowtext; FONT-SIZE: 10pt"> 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. <o:p></o:p></SPAN></P>
<P class=MsoNormal><SPAN style="FONT-FAMILY: BRADDON; COLOR: #943634; FONT-SIZE: 14pt"><o:p> </o:p></SPAN></P>
<P class=MsoNormal><SPAN style="FONT-FAMILY: BRADDON; COLOR: #943634; FONT-SIZE: 14pt"><o:p> </o:p></SPAN></P></DIV>
<DIV id=signature class=signature>--<BR>Marilyn Briggs <BR></DIV>
<!-- END WEBMAIL STATIONERY -->
</body>
</html>