If this story doesn't tug at your heart strings, nothing will.   
       
   BEST DOG STORY EVER.   
       
   Is it true? Who cares, it's a tear jerker, whether you're a dog lover or not.   
       
   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 or 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 up a couple of 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 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 them, so be careful.   
   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, too:"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.   
       
   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 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 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, too, 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 take 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   
   to the U.S.  If I have to give up Tank in order to do it, 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. 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   
   into the next room.   
       
   And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.   
       
       
   Regards,   
       
   Roger   
      
   --- D'Bridge 3.72   
    * Origin: NCS BBS (1:3828/7)