[Nfb-krafters-korner] OT: FW: GGM Babble All about a special dog

Wed Aug 17 05:19:58 UTC 2016

You really need to put like a 50 hanky warning on that.

Cindy

-----Original Message-----
From: Nfb-krafters-korner [mailto:nfb-krafters-korner-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Cathy Flesher via Nfb-krafters-korner
Sent: Tuesday, August 16, 2016 7:50 PM
To: laura zeiser <walksalot at gmail.com>; todd flesher
<toddaflesher at sbcglobal.net>
Cc: Cathy Flesher <flowersandherbs at gmail.com>; krafters korner
<Nfb-krafters-korner at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [Nfb-krafters-korner] OT: FW: GGM Babble All about a special dog

I don't forward mail much, but when I do, it is something special. this is
special.

-----Original Message-----
From: GGM-Babble at groups.io [mailto:GGM-Babble at groups.io] On Behalf Of James
Gagnier
Sent: Saturday, August 13, 2016 1:09 PM
To: GGM-Babble at groups.io
Subject: GGM Babble All about a special dog

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 company commander 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 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. If you can read this without getting a lump
in your throat or a tear in your eye, you just ain't right.

"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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