Your Dog Is Not Your Date

“…the girlfriend is a good cook so the dog has to go.”

Yep! You’ve probably guessed it. Somebum (as opposed to someone) is getting rid of his hound in favor of a new girlfriend. Testosterone and culinary ability take precedence over “…a good well trained dog (that) is house trained, kennel trained, and very smart…..loves children, loves to run and play….is truly the smartest dog I have ever owned.” (The bum’s own words).

This was part of yet another Craigslist ad that caught my attention, the gist of it being that the girlfriend had moved in with her dogs, including a rottweiler that didn’t get along with Patches. So instead of doing the right thing and taking a little time and effort to train the pooches to live in harmony, poor Patches had to go after three years of love, loyalty, no complaints, ready kisses, obedience and companionship. Wonder if the bum will get all that from the girlfriend? In fact, what do you want to bet that she’ll even be around three years from now?

If you’re looking to re-home a pet or are thinking about adopting one, take a look at these other articles on Purrs ‘n Gurrs:

How Not to Foreclose On Your Pet

Kids Want A Pet? Take A Test Drive First

Is Pet Adoption Right For You?

And take a look at Don’t Get A Dog for things to think about before you bring a pup home.

“A dog is not considered a good dog because he is a good barker. A man is not considered a good man because he is a good talker.” ~ Buddha

Did You Know? Only 1% of Your HSUS Donation Goes To Animal Shelters

We’ve all seen them. Those pitiable pictures of dirty, skeletal dogs and cats. Or TV ads, usually with a celebrity spokesperson, pleading for funds to help starving, homeless and brutalized pets.

Here’s the thing, just how much of your hard-earned cash actually helps those animals?

There’s a site, humanewatch.org, that devotes itself to tracking the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). David Martosko is its creator and operator who writes frequent, straightforward and often times pithy exposes of HSUS.

Of note is a recent article that discusses a poll wherein 7 out of 10 Americans stated they believe HSUS is affiliated with thousands of humane societies around the country. Not so! Even more startling is Mr. Martosko’s accounting of just how very, very little of your generosity actually benefits the animals to whose welfare you doubtless believe you are contributing.

While I don’t endorse this site (I simply don’t know enough about it at this time), I have no reason to doubt Mr. Martosko’s apparently thorough research and I do suggest that you take a look for yourselves. More to the point, if you plan to give some of your hard-earned cash to any charitable organization, do your due diligence first. Make use of Charity Navigator and Charity Watch to find your charity’s rating and be sure you understand how the companies are rated.

Better yet, why not stick with local organizations where you can actually walk in the door and ask for information? And best of all, give a little of your time as well. You’re far more likely to learn where the money goes when you take a hands-on approach.

“Many years ago when an adored dog died, a great friend, a bishop, said to me, “You must always remember that, as far as the Bible is concerned, God only threw the humans out of Paradise” ~ Unknown

Kids Want A Pet? Take a Test Drive First

So the kids have been driving you crazy about getting that dog, or that cute little guinea pig. First off, we all know that no matter what you say to your kids about the responsibility of pet ownership or how you say it, they’re kids and they’re not always going to remember to change the water in the bowl, or clean the hamster’s bedding or take the pup for a walk. And even if they do remember, they’re not always going to want to do it.

That means the ultimate responsibility will always lie with you, the parent. So if you’re not prepared to take on a fuzzy “child” then just keep saying “No”. But if you’re willing to consider the possibility of a pet, how about having the kids test drive their pet-parenting skills first with a virtual pet? Maybe you could draw up an agreement with your children: they fulfill their caretaking duties with a virtual pet for three months, they get the real thing.

A few weeks ago I adopted Rascal from FooPets.com, which has by far the most realistic virtual (I think that’s an oxymoron) pets online. I’ve never been interested in online games so this is all quite new to me but I’ve surprised myself by actually becoming attached to my little simulated husky. I feel responsible for him.

From a parenting standpoint you can monitor your child’s dedication to his or her pet every time you log on. There’s a care history that shows when you feed and water your pet, when you throw him a ball or groom him and so on. By interacting daily with your pet, you develop a pet-owner bond, which is shown as a yellow bar. If you miss a day, the bonding bar is re-set to zero. If you neglect your pet, then he will be taken to the FooShelter.

And that’s what I most like about this; though it’s free to adopt a pet, there are requirements and consequences. You have to take care of your pet’s health needs by grooming and giving flea treatments. You are also responsible for arranging your pet’s care if you go away. And the care of your pet is not exactly free.

When you first adopt you will be given 5,000 FooGems. These can be used to buy food, medications and things to make your pet more comfortable. Additional FooGems are earned simply by visiting and playing with your pet daily. It’s also possible to buy FooDollars but I think it’s a better test of your kids’ dedication to have them earn and make do with the FooGems. I’ve been able to feed, groom and medicate Rascal as well as create a play area for him and a mountain get-a-way by using just FooGems.

FooPets does its best to mimic the needs of a real dog or cat. In fact, in their adoption rules they state, “Your FooPet is a real creature that lives online. It will have a date of birth and a lifespan of 10-20 years, depending on how well you take care of it. It will age and act differently over time.”

Rascal is just three months old, so he has a long way to go. When he’s old enough I can even breed him, but as I’m all about rescuing the millions of abandoned and abused pets in this world, I plan to save up the 20,000 FooGems I need to get him neutered. And if I really want another virtual dog or cat, I can adopt from the FooShelter.

“Every puppy should have a boy.” ~ Erma Bombeck

Henry The Eighth Is Number One – Part II

Dumping your pet at a dog park may seem like a better idea than leaving him by the side of a road or taking him for a “drive in the country”. Perhaps you think some soft-hearted dog lover will take Fido in and life will be happy ever after. Never mind that your pooch may be confused, terrified, hungry and at the mercy of the elements. The stark fact is that most such abandoned animals are found by park staff who are obligated to call their city or county animal control, which is rarely no-kill. So you may just have condemned your pet to death; and a callous one at that.

In recent months there have been three dogs at our local park who were spared that dreadful fate. A precious little chihuahua left on the counter in the public restrooms was given a home by the mother of one of the temporary park staff; a young and very sweet-tempered pit bull was taken home by the girl who found her and eventually re-homed; a darling little dog who looked like a fox went to Southern Hope Humane Society (one of the best rescue groups around) and was very quickly adopted.

Then there was Henry VIII. Let’s resume his story.

Time was running out for our abandoned little Yorkshire Terrier. There were just a couple of days to find him at least a temporary home before I left town. A friend had suggested that Hans, who runs Camp Woof, might be able to help. “Bring him over and let’s take a look,” was the response when I called. So off we went.

My intent was to ask that Hans keep Bailey (as we’d named the pup) either until a permanent home was found, or until my return. Camp Woof has many dog-lovers in and out of its doors every day, so it seemed likely that someone would see Bailey and fall for his irresistible charm. Well, within just a few minutes it was looking as if Hans might be that someone.

Bailey was born to perform. He can do cute better than a dimpled Shirley Temple singing “Animal Crackers In My Soup“, and he certainly laid it on for Hans and everyone at Camp Woof that day. I left him there with assurances that he’d be well cared for and a strong suspicion that he’d be a fixture at the camp by the time I came back.

Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I raced over to the daycare to check on my former protegee and found him ensconced, throne-like, behind the counter, his every whim being catered to by the staff and graciously accepting the adulation of all who passed by. Never was a dog more assured of his kingly status than this petite pedigreed pooch and he had a new name to prove it – Henry VIII.

In actuality, Henry was not named for the infamous Tudor of Olde England but came by his name for a more practical reason. He had indeed joined Hans’ already extensive family of rescues and, as it happens, was the eighth dog! So, as Hans tells it, “He had to be Henry the eighth”. Turns out the name was a little serendipitous, however. Henry, though the smallest dog by far in the Hans’ household, in short time was reigning supreme both at home and Camp Woof.

As Hans tells it, when he first came home Henry was a little timid; within a week he’d taken over the household. Seven of the other dogs accepted him immediately, including JJ, the rotweiler mix. Hope, a dachshund mix who didn’t like anyone at first sight, now loves Henry. “His Highness”  grandly helps himself from everyone’s food bowls and none of them object. At night he sleeps with Hans and likes to get under the covers when it’s cold. He insists on sitting on Hans’ lap when being chauffeured around town.

The one thing that Henry will not now or ever be able to do is have an heir to his throne. During my absence, he had received all his shots and been rendered unable to spawn progeny. Not that a bunch of ditto dogs wouldn’t be adorable, but no-one (at least, no-one who reads this blog) wants more little unloved and homeless yorkies running around.

If only every story could have such a happy ending as that of Henry and Hans. Theirs’ is a perfect match. It’s obvious that King Henry has no doubt of his status in Hans’ heart and, in return, is devoted to Hans. “He’s such a character,” says Hans. “I can’t imagine my life without him”.

“To his dog, every man is King; hence the constant popularity of dogs.” – Aldous Huxley

Henry the Eighth Is Number One

You know, abandonment is such a cavalier form of cruelty; it’s not like being beaten senseless or half-starved or even used as bait in a fighting ring. And the people who dump their pets off in the woods or by the side of a road often justify their actions as “Giving Fido a chance”. It’s rubbish, of course. People who so callously forsake their “friends” do so because they haven’t the guts to face up to their own shortcomings by admitting they can’t care for a pet, or else they really just don’t give a damn. Here’s a case in point.

This is Henry VIII, as regal a pup as you will know and ruler of his domain. It wasn’t always that way, though. This is Part I of his story.

It’s not unusual for me to be the first person at the dog park with Angel, Vinny and Coco, sometimes before sunrise. On this particular morning, Bruce and Henry (the biggest little dog in our park), were there ahead of us.

The night had been brutal; horrendous thunderstorms and it was still raw cold and dark. As I got out of the car I heard Bruce calling me from the small-dog park. Ambling over I saw Henry (no, not the Henry VIII who’s the subject of this narrative), who’s a Yorkie, and on the far side of the park was another little dog.

“You got Henry a buddy,” I exclaimed. But no! Bruce had noticed the little pup when he arrived with Henry. “He won’t come to me,” said Bruce. Henry wasn’t exactly helping as he didn’t want the potential usurper to commandeer Bruce’s attention, so I stepped in to try my luck.

It took about five minutes before the little guy let me hold him. He wanted to come to me but was wary and I can’t say I blamed him. He was shivering violently, probably a combination of fear and the fact that he was completely soaked and had a pronounced limp. The hair clinging to his body showed how thin he was and when I picked him up he weighed next to nothing. In spite of his bedraggled condition, though, there was no doubt he was another Yorkie.

Bruce was tempted to take him home but figured Henry would be miffed about that, so the diminutive waif came home with me.

We (my husband and I, that is) called him Bailey, after Sir Donald Bailey, a Yorkshire-born engineer who invented the Bailey bridge (and because we had to call him something other than hey you).

Here’s the thing about Bailey. Someone had taken care of him and not so long before. Yes, he was very thin and hungry; yes, he was dirty; yes, he was frightened. But he’d had a professional haircut, he had no parasites and he was used to being handled. When you bent to pick him up he would automatically raise up on his hind legs to be lifted. And once he got over his fear he was perfectly at ease in the house with both the dogs and cats.

After a good meal a trip to the vet confirmed Bailey had no ID and no major health issues. The limp was caused by luxating patella, a dislocation of the kneecap that apparently is quite common in Yorkies and, happily, was rendered OK by a little maneuvering of the joint. A warm bath took care of the last of Bailey’s immediate needs and then the major issue was what to do with him.

Problem was, my husband and I were a couple of days from going away. Making Bailey part of our family was tempting; this pup had personality with a capital “P” and he was just a love. Our pack, however, weren’t the right fit for him. Angel can play too rough and I didn’t want the threesome to gang up on him. And Bailey did have one problem – no housetraining. Not only was it was an issue I didn’t have time to handle, with nine cats and three dogs we already had a tentative “balance of power” and I didn’t need to upset that with a fourth dog marking his territory all around the abode. So, it remained to find Bailey his perfect forever home.

Half a day later and things were discouraging. The Yorkshire Terrier rescue group were only taking the most severe abuse cases because they were over-loaded. Same problem with other groups that fostered out their rescues – no room. A county shelter was simply out of the question; too little oversight of potential adopters. And I’d phoned just about everyone I knew. Then back at the park where our hapless hound was abandoned, a fellow pet parent suggested Camp Woof.

Camp Woof is one of the local doggie daycare centers and Hans, who runs the show, is known to be a complete softie when it comes to strays. This was my last shot, so I made the call.

Part II of Henry VIII’s story will run in our next issue on February 3rd.

“Money will buy you a pretty good dog, but it won’t buy the wag of his tail.” ~ Henry Wheeler Shaw

A Mutt Of A Different Breed

By most standards, Muttley was born on the wrong side of the tracks but to me he was a champion. Though he never had a good hair day in his life, no pedigreed blue-blood could have had a bigger heart, nobler bearing or sweeter temperament.

For years dogs of uncertain ancestry have been given short shrift at rescue shelters. Purebreds (about 25 – 30% of the intake numbers), by dint of their association with quality, tend to be snapped up before the humbler mongrels even get a look.

But at long last, the lowly mixed-breed is gaining status; in some measure thanks to the American Mutt-i-grees Club, which promotes the adoption of mutts from rescue groups and shelters rather than feeding into the trade of puppy mills by buying your pet from a store.

Muttley came into my life at a very tough time. Lou, who had been my love, my partner and my friend, was dying of cancer. Out of the blue one day he announced that he wanted a dog. There was no way he would be able to help in the care of a pup so I knew it would fall on me and, already, caring for Lou was a full-time day and night job with medications every four hours, a special diet, endless doctors’ appointments, being companion, advisor and restorer of faith. But how could I possibly say, “No!”. So off we went to the local pound.

Walking into the shelter there was a large window with the featured pet. “Lucky” was the doggy in the window that day. Lou took one look and said, “I want that one”. My heart fell. Poor Lucky looked like a big pink rat. He was  hairless even before the Chinese Crested breed made it trendy. With protruding bones and ugly sores over his body he had the skinniest chicken legs you’ve ever seen. Those legs had ugly rope burns on them where he’d been trussed up like the Sunday roast. Lucky’s life had obviously not been a reflection of his name and I didn’t know if I had the extra energy or the soul that it would take to look after him while also caring for Lou.

Of course, when we left the pound we left with Lucky and for me that turned out to be one of the luckiest days of my life. By the time we reached home my heart was breaking for this pitiful little creature who sat on my lap looking at me with such a mixture of trepidation and hope.

Lou renamed our little pooch Muttley. We figured he was a maltese poodle mix with maybe a dash of something else. Whatever his “muttigree”, his personality was blue-blood all the way.

Lou died a few months after Muttley came home. Those months were a roller-coaster of anguish, anxiety and a fair amount of happiness and nonsense. But all that I’m going to tell you about another time and then you’ll understand why Muttley is the inspiration for this blog.

“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.” ~ James Herriott

Don’t Get A Dog – Or Any Pet, For That Matter

Sheba is a sweet and playful girl who would love to find a forever home in time for the holidays. You can find her as of this writing at southernhope.org.

Those of you who are familiar with Angel will understand the title of this blog. Angel was a poster puppy for the Don’t Get A Dog campaign, which promotes intelligent, responsible and caring ownership of dogs. With Christmas approaching, marketers heavily promoting the sale of pets and the kids begging for that puppy, kitten or hamster, it seems like a good time to remind ourselves of the three primary considerations for pet parenthood.

1. Can you afford a pet? Basic food and veterinary care for a dog can easily be $1500 – $2000 a year. Then what about training? Emergency medical? Licenses? Maybe a fence?  Daycare or pet-sitting? And don’t think cats are necessarily cheaper. Last year I spent nearly $3000 on just one of our cats who was plagued with chronic urinary problems. Even a hamster, gerbil or lizard can become costly if medical care is needed. And don’t forget the initial cost of cages or terrariums if you’re a new owner.

Before you fall for a soulful pair of eyes, sit down and calculate the costs for the life of the pet. If you are in any doubt that you can cover those costs, then don’t even think about getting a pet!

2. Can you afford the time? This is about as important as cost. Why would you get a dog if you’re gone for 12 hours a day? Because you want the company when you get home? Then get a cat. Or two cats. Or a gerbil. They’ll survive quite happily without you for the day as long as there’s food, water, toys, clean litter and comfy bedding, and they’ll be there to welcome you home.

It’s asking a lot of a dog, however, to be cooped up for so long and to hold his “business” ’til it suits you. And will you feel up to walking a dog before and after work every day? Are you willing to get a dog-walker, if necessary? Do you have the time to train your pet (and yourself)? An untrained animal can be very destructive, which is a major reason pets are brought in to shelters.

If you don’t have a few hours every day to feed, walk, groom, clean, medicate, train, play and whatever else necessary for your companion’s well-being, then don’t get a pet!

3. Can you make the commitment? A dog’s lifespan can reach 20 years! That’s unusual, but when you undertake to bring a dog into your home you should do so on the assumption (and hope) that he may be with you for a long time.

Average life expectancy, according to the AKC, 2008:

1. Labrador Retriever (12.5 years)
2. Yorkshire Terrier (14 years)
3. German Shepherd Dog (11 years)
4. Golden Retriever (12 years)
5. Beagle (13 years)
6. Boxer (10.5 years)
7. Dachshund (15.5 years)
8. Bulldog (7 years)
9. Poodle (12 years Standard) (15 years Miniature)
10. Shih Tzu (13 years)
11. Miniature Schnauzer (14 years)
12. Chihuahua (13.5)
13. Pomeranian (15 years)
14. Rottweiler (10 years)
15. Pug (13.5 years)
16. German Shorthaired Pointer (13 years)
17. Boston Terrier (13 years)
18. Doberman Pinscher (10 years)
19. Shetland Sheepdog (13.5 years)
20. Maltese (14 years)
21. Cocker Spaniel (12 years)
22. Great Dane (8.5 years)
23. Siberian Husky (12 years)
24. Pembroke Welsh Corgi (13 years)
25. Cavalier King Charles Spaniel (10 years)

A properly cared-for cat can expect to reach 15 years of age or more; a gerbil could live for five years; ball pythons 20 – 30 years; rabbits 8 – 12 years; guinea pigs 4 – 7; iguanas 12 – 15 years. You get the picture!

And there’s more to commitment than lifespan. Commitment can mean not going on that skiing weekend because you need to stay home and nurse a sick animal. It can mean forfeiting that new HDTV to pay vet bills instead or using up a vacation day because the pet-sitter can’t make it.

Commitment is also about patiently working with Fido ’til he understands the concept of house-training. It’s about scooping the litter box every day, maybe twice a day; cleaning out your rodent’s house-quarters and replacing the bedding every week; mucking out your horses stall every day and a host of other things to keep your pet safe, healthy and happy.

So, if you don’t think you have it in you to be truly committed to your companion, then don’t get a pet!

There is an upside to this. The joys of pet-parenting are bountiful. The excitement when your pup first learns to “sit”; the laughter your hamster can bring with his antics; the soft whisper of your kitten’s whiskers on your cheek; the sense of security when your dog barks at strangers coming to the house; that special bond between you and your chosen pet.

“My husband and I are either going to buy a dog or have a child. We can’t decide whether to ruin our carpets or ruin our lives.”~Rita Rudner

Do I Go Home Today?

DO I GO HOME TODAY?
(Author Unknown)

My family brought me home cradled in their arms.
They cuddled me and smiled at me and said I was full of charm.

They played with me and laughed with me and showered me with toys.
I sure do love my family, especially the little girls and boys.

The children loved to feed me; they gave me special treats.
They even let me sleep with them – all snuggled in the sheets.

I used to go for walks, often several times a day.
They even fought to hold the leash, I’m very proud to say!

These are the things I’ll not forget – a cherished memory.
I now live in the shelter – without my family.

They used to laugh and praise me when I played with that old shoe.
But I didn’t know the difference between the old one and the new.

The kids and I would grab a rug, for hours we would tug.
So I thought I did the right thing when I chewed the bedroom rug.

They said I was out of control and would have to live outside.
This I didn’t understand, although I tried and tried!

The walks stopped, one by one; they said they hadn’t the time.
I wish that I could change things; I wish I knew my crime.

My life became so lonely in the backyard on a chain.
I barked and barked all day long to keep from going insane.

So they brought me to the shelter, but were embarrassed to say why.
They said I caused an allergy, and then each kissed me goodbye.

If I’d only had some training as a little pup,
I wouldn’t have been so hard to handle when I was all grown up.

“You only have one day left”, I heard a worker say.
Does that mean I have a second chance? Do I go home today?

“It is a truism to say that the dog is largely what his master makes of him: he can be savage and dangerous, untrustworthy, cringing and fearful; or he can be faithful and loyal, courageous and the best of companions and allies.” ~ Sir Ranulph Fiennes

The Big Black Lab

There’s an email doing the rounds. It’s highly unlikely to be a true story but well worth the read, none-the-less. When you’ve finished reading, and dried your eyes, I’ll tell you how you can help those who are serving their country in Afghanistan and Iraq, and the loyal and loved pets they sometimes don’t come home to.

“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 every thing’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 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, 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 too 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 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.
And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.”

_____________________________

If you’d like to help one of the servicemen or women who are doing duty away from home and have room in your home and heart to foster a pet for the duration of the owner’s deployment, then consider Operation Noble Foster, or Military Pets Foster Project.

**The black lab pictured above is Duke, who is available for adoption at this time from Labrador Retriever Rescue, Inc.

“To err is human, to forgive, canine.” – Unknown

The Rescuers Creed

Help may have come too late for this little pup. She was found recently in a park with severe second and third-degree burns to her head, back, stomach, tail and legs. Her ears were burned off and she had a broken jaw and teeth. Based on the development of maggots (*see below) that covered her body, it’s estimated that the 10-week old pit-mix was abandoned about two weeks before her rescue. Her case is still open and the suspects unknown.

I promise I will take your unwanted animals.
I will heal their wounds, their diseases, their broken bones.
I will give them the medical attention they need and deserve.
I will nurture their starvation and give them a warm place to sleep.
I will spay and neuter them, vaccinate them against the diseases that can harm them.
I will treat them and honor them.
I will buy them toys, blankets, balls, and teach them to play.
I will speak softly to them.
I will try to teach them not to fear, not to cry, and not to hate.
I will whisper sweet, kind, gentle words into their ears, while gently trying to stroke their fear, their pain, and their scars away.
I will face their emotional scars and give them time to overcome them.
I will socialize them, potty train them, teach them to be obedient, show them dignity, and hold their paws, and stroke their ears if they have endured too much and walk them over the Rainbow Bridge, BUT most of all I will teach them LOVE.

Author unknown

“Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

As weird as this may seem, it’s possible the maggots helped this little girl survive. Throughout history maggots have been used for medicinal purposes and, today, are known to liquefy dead tissue, kill harmful bacteria and stimulate healing.

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