The Day I Met Tank

They told me his name was Reggie.

When I first saw the big black Lab lying in his pen at the shelter, I honestly didn’t know what to expect. I’d only been in this small college town for about six months, trying to settle into a new life. The people here were wonderful — they waved at you on the streets, remembered your name at the grocery store, even asked how your mother was doing if they happened to know her. Still, something was missing. I’d left behind friends, family, familiarity. Maybe, I thought, a dog would fill the gap. Someone to talk to on lonely nights.

I’d seen Reggie’s picture on the local news. The shelter mentioned they’d had plenty of calls about him, but no one who seemed like a “Lab person.” Whatever that meant, apparently I was close enough.

So I signed the paperwork and brought home a dog who came with a bed, a dish, a bag of nearly new tennis balls, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.

Reggie and I didn’t exactly click right away. For two awkward weeks, we both struggled. He seemed distant, confused. I was still finding my own routine. Maybe, in a way, we were both trying to figure out where we belonged.

One night, exhausted after another stiff round of fetch that neither of us seemed to enjoy much, I remembered the envelope. I dug it out of the bag of dog supplies, sat down on the couch, and carefully opened it.

The letter inside read:

To Whomever Gets My Dog,

I can’t say I’m happy you’re reading this. I’m not even happy writing it. He knew something was different when I started packing.

So let me tell you about my Lab, hoping it’ll help you bond with him, and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more, the better. I swear he’s part squirrel, hoarding them all over the house. He’ll try to get three in his mouth at once. So watch where you throw them — keep him away from the road.

Commands: Reggie knows all the basics — sit, stay, come, heel — plus hand signals for ball, food, bone, and treat. Twice a day feeding, just standard store stuff. The shelter knows his brand. And he hates the vet. Good luck getting him there.

Mostly, give him time. It’s been just the two of us his whole life. He’s been everywhere with me. Please keep taking him in the car. He sits in the backseat quietly. He just wants to be near his person.

There’s one last thing. His name’s not Reggie. I told the shelter that because I couldn’t stand hearing his real name called out by strangers. But you deserve to know it now that you’re his new family. His name is Tank. Because that’s what I drive.

I asked the Army — my only request — to call the shelter if something happened to me. I have no family left. My company commander is a dog guy. If you’re reading this, it means he kept his word.

Tank has been my family for six years. Almost as long as the Army’s been my family. I hope he becomes yours now, and that he’ll come to love you as he loved me.

If giving up Tank meant keeping those terrible people from our shores, then I’d do it all over again. He is my example of loyalty. I hope my service honored him.

I deploy tonight. I’ll drop this letter off on my way. Maybe I’ll peek in on him, see if he ever managed that third tennis ball.

Good luck with Tank. Give him an extra kiss goodnight from me.

Thank you,
Paul Mallory

I sat there for a long while after reading that letter. Everyone in town knew about Paul Mallory — the local hero who’d died in Iraq just months earlier, earning a Silver Star for saving three of his brothers-in-arms. Flags had flown at half-mast all summer.

Finally, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and looked at the big dog sprawled on the floor.

“Hey, Tank,” I whispered.

His head snapped up. Ears perked, eyes shining, like he’d been waiting forever to hear that word again.

“C’mere, boy.”

In an instant, his heavy paws were clicking across the floor. He sat right in front of me, head tilted, tail swishing the floor with hope.

“Tank,” I said again, softly.

This time, something melted in him. His ears drooped, his eyes softened, and his whole body seemed to sigh with relief. I scratched behind his ears, then buried my face in his warm neck fur.

“It’s me now, Tank. Just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me.”

Tank licked my cheek, a long, grateful swipe.

I pulled back, wiped my eyes, and grinned. “So… what do you say we play some ball? Huh, Tank? Ball?”

Suddenly he was gone, a black blur racing into the other room. Seconds later, he bounded back, triumphant — three tennis balls wedged clumsily in his big mouth.

I laughed until I cried.

That was the day Tank truly came home. And that night, I gave him an extra kiss goodnight. Just like Paul asked. Every night since, I’ve kept that promise.

💛 If you ever wonder about loyalty, love, or what it means to serve without expecting anything in return — think of Tank and Paul. Some bonds are forever.