Somewhere on the know-it-all internet I read about a man who adopted a dog, Reggie. Reggie was six years old and he came with a box of toys.
But Reggie wouldn’t sit, come or stay, didn’t want to be petted or talked to, and wouldn’t go anywhere without two tennis balls in his mouth.
Depressed? Ennui? Deaf?
After two weeks of being ignored (by a dog!), the new owner packed Reggie’s things in the box to return him to the shelter. But he found an envelope in the box addressed To Whoever Gets My Dog.
“Reggie knows hand commands, hasn’t been able to get three tennis balls in his mouth but keeps trying, loves riding around in the car, and his name isn’t Reggie.”
The writer explains that when he took his black Lab to the shelter, he just couldn’t bear to give them his real name, “which is Tank because that’s what I drive.”
The letter writer explains that his parents were gone, he had no siblings, and Tank is his only family. But he got deployed to the Middle East. He made arrangements with his commanding officer that should he be killed in Iraq, the only call would be to the shelter with the OK to let Tank be adopted – with his box of toys.
The adoptive father looked at the dog and whispered, “Here, Tank,” and the dog perked up, wagged his tail, lowered his ears, softened his eyes and leaned against the man. Then he ran to his toy box where he got three tennis balls to fit in his mouth.
Which reminded me of Frog, my rescue dog. I was all twisted about the virus that was taking out bodies and businesses faster than a kid eats popcorn, so in April 2020, I thought if I adopted the worst dog in our shelter, it would take my mind off my worries. She was a year-old, her name was something else, but I didn’t want her to remember her past, so I renamed her Frog the Dog.
It was inevitable that Ocho, my older dog, would attitude her because territorial and all.
Frog tore up porch furniture, shoes, socks, shirts, feather pillows and pictures. She’d been caged all her life and didn’t know anything about grass, so she assumed it was standard procedure to be locked in a cage before going to the bathroom. Imagine her surprise at having a big yard, another dog who looked at her like, “How’d you get away with that?” and a human who was always at work.
About three weeks ago Frog didn’t get up. She just laid on her bed not moving. She didn’t eat or drink for two days, didn’t respond to me. I traced every inch of her body feeling for bites, bumps, leaky stuff. I shined a flashlight down her throat looking for whatever. She wasn’t in pain, but she was spiritless.
At midnight on the third night, I woke up just knowing she was dead and not wanting to look.
Right then I felt a wet nose on my hand. Frog was staring at me.
We walked out on the porch where she drank and drank and drank. She licked me, licked Ocho, and even fell asleep touching him.
She’s been a perfect dog ever since.
I wonder what she ate.