Here's a story making the "rounds" of forwarded emails around the world....most of the time I ignore/delete/file under miscellaneous if I like it....but I very rarely forward anything because for each one I forward, I get ten or 20 back...lol. But this one is a lovely story...I believe it is a true story....and I wanted to share it with you all.

Grab a box of tissues.....it's a tear-jerker...but a very nice story all the same.
 

(This is the only pic I have of what looks to me like a black lab..if it isnt, I'm sorry..lol)

 
 
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 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.