North Country Dachshunds                                                       

Stud Service Coming Soon
These little guys are growing into beautiful young dogs:
2 black and tan males, 1 chocolate and tan male
   

A dog story you will want to read.  They told me the big brown Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, the people friendly.  I'd only been in the area for six months, everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming.  But something was still missing –  as I attempted to settle in to my new life, I thought a dog couldn't hurt. I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls after the broadcast, but the people who had come to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

At first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me as they handed me his leash along with a dog pad, a bag of brand new tennis balls, feed dishes and a sealed letter from his previous owner. Reggie and I didn't hit it off when we got home either. We continued to struggle 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. 

I tried the normal dog commands, the shelter told me he knew, "sit", "stay", "come", "heel," but he never seemed to listen when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction, but then he'd merely go back to whatever he was doing.  It just wasn't going to work.  He even chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes. When that happened,"that was it", I thought and punched the shelter’s number into the phone.  But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about it. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice for us." . . .

To Whoever Gets My Dog:

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.  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 has two in his mouth.  He's tried for three, but hasn’t done it yet. It doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful.

Next, commands.  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. 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. He's also up on his shots. Be forewarned, he hates the vet.

Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, 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 doesn't bark or complain. He loves to be around people and me most especially. Which means that this transition is going to be hard on him. That's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....

His name's not Reggie, when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'd get used to it and would respond eventually. At the time, I couldn't bear to give them his real name. It seemed so final, handing him over to the shelter was as good as admitting that I'd never see him again. But if you are reading this letter, well . . . it means you are his new owner and you should know his real name is Tank, that is what I drive.  A Tank for the Army.

I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. My parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could leave him with... my only request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, to make one phone call to the shelter... in the "event"... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy too.  He knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd call personally. 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. 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 Tank is what I am taking with me to Iraq, the inspiration I will cling to. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He is my example. I will work to honor him in service to my country and comrades.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home and give him an extra treat each 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 Hero, killed in Iraq" a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three of his buddies. Flags were hung at half-mast all summer in his memory.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at that big brown lab. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly. The dog's head whipped up and snapped to attention.  His ears cocked forward and his eyes expressed full focus. "C'mere boy."

He was instantly on his feet, sitting in front of me, in what seemed like an instant.  He seemed to be searching for the name he hadn't heard in months. "Tank," I whispered again.  His tail flung back and fourth so hard it knocked over everything it touched. I kept whispering his name, over and over, each time, his ears lowered, eyes softened and posture relaxed with a wave of contentment. I stroked his head, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff as I hugged him as I knelt down beside him. Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So what da'ya' 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 as he searched for his tennis balls.  When he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.  (Unknown author, reprinted as a tribute to the troops in service of our country)