Happy Kay Day!

Happy Mother's Day to all yo' mommas out there! I'm lucky enough to know some pretty incredible mothers. Two of the best and most influential in my life share a name: Kay Baker, my mother, and Kay Wilkinson, my mother-in-law.

Kay Wilkinson

Me and Mom

To these women, I know nothing means more than family. Their lives serve as great examples of what it means to put others before self.

My mother was the central pillar of my childhood. Her sacrifices made everything I was and am possible. She's taught me to always laugh loudly, to treat all other with respect, to sing whether others listen or not, and all true love is unconditional. With her, I know I always have room to be myself. She is one of the funniest people I know, and one of the most beautiful. 

From my mother-in-law, I've learned "the more the marrier." I've been lucky enough to go to Florida with her and about 25 others twice -- trips she has organized with her family. Nearly every Tuesday for last 10 years she has made our family dinner, and every Thankgiving, you can bet I'm eating her food. Whether it's picking the boys up from school, or watching them bowl on Saturday mornings, she routinely goes above and beyond to do what she can for the kids. I don't know if I've ever known anyone who values family more than Kay Wilkinson. My wife is an amazing mother, and I know it's because she has had a great example to follow.

I hope today they know they are truly loved and appreciated. Happy Mother's Day to all the Kays out there!

   

Happy Mother's Day 2012

Anna Jarvis is the unofficial mother of Mother's Day. According to information released by the U.S. Census Bureau, she organized observances in Grafton, W.Va., and Philadelphia on May 10, 1908. As celebration caught on around the country, Jarvis asked members of Congress to set aside a day to honor mothers. Her efforts were recognized in 1914, when Congress designated the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day.


Here are some other interesting facts and figures about the day we dedicate to our mommies:

• There were more than 85 million mothers in the U.S.in 2009.
• In the last 12 months, 4 million women between the ages of 15 and 50 have given birth.
• 81 percent of women between the ages of 40 and 44 reported they had become mothers.
• In 2008, the average age of a woman giving birth for the first time was 25.1.
• In 2009, there was roughly 25,000 jewelry stores in the U.S. and more than 17,000 florists.
• There were 10 million single mothers living with children under the age of 18 in 2011. This is up from 3.4 million in 1970. 5.2 million of last year's single mothers were owed child support. 

In recognition of Mrs. Jarvis' efforts, I'd like to take a minute share some interesting facts about my awesome mother: Katy Baker, a.k.a. Kay Brown.

• She was born Dec. 3, 1954 in Cape Girardeau, Mo. to Eugene and Virginia Baker. Kay was the fourth of seven children, and the first girl.
• She currently lives in Des Moines, Iowa.
• She has given birth to two handsome boys. Brian was born in St. Joseph, Mo. on June 10, 1975, and Justin was born in Kansas City on Feb. 27, 1980.
• From 1983 forward, she was a single, working mother. 
• Both of her children have graduated college.
• A devoted mother (and grandmother of five), Mrs. Baker loves traveling, eating out, Law & Order SVU and making fun of gray hairs she sees on her oldest son's head and in his beard.
• Not only did her children have everything they needed growing up, but today they have a mother who is going through life with them, sharing in their triumphs and tragedies, helping them find meaning and direction, and is known to regularly put their needs before her own. 

I love you, mom. And not just on the second Sunday in May. 

Blue calming waters

Sunday dishes and basketball
swirl with singing in the young soft car,
a green and gold bicycle gift,
passing out in a tiled bathroom.
I'm pulled from my body in
a timeless flash.
A sacred oasis,
constructed for rest, for knowing,
for letting go, finds me
in a dying moment.
Mourn for me, but I am not lost,
lying still, on a white linen sheet,
in the street, on an adjustable bed.
The light guides me on a drying line,
through a cave
into a field of green, by a river
with blue calming waters.
A friend waits for me on the bank,
holding the love we share
of a simple melody.
We cross.
'I'm home' we sing.
We're home. And I'll wait for you there.
So we can fade together, forever,
into the sun.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today, my mother turns 57. We saw her at Thanksgiving when she drove down from Iowa. She lives with a friend of hers outside of Des Moines, but manages to come to Springfield a few times a year.

The older I get, the more I appreciate her. Mom has always been something of a free spirit. My parents got divorced when I was 8-years-old, and she never remarried, often saying that she didn't need the hassle. She was always prone to unexpected trips to see the relatives or some old friend of hers my brother and I didn't really know. In fact, if there is one place where she feels most at home, it's probably her car. There is just something about the road that calls to a free spirit like mom.

Since it's her birthday, and I love her so much for all she done for me over the years, I thought I'd get her something really special.

It's a picture of a new BMW-M3. Love you, mom!

Down with Bears in 2012!

I'd make a lousy politician, but that doesn't stop me from daydreaming about all the fun it could be to run a campaign. The campaigns I dawdle about, admittedly, are ridiculous.

I've joked before that I don't understand why predators are allowed to live among us. I'm not talking about sexual predators (a fine and easy target for your average politician), I'm talking about real predators like lions, or stealthy pumas, or giant black bears. Though I'm not sure bears are technically predators -- they're more like hairy fisherman -- they still can be pretty big and scary. Even the little cubs could stick a paw on you and leave some nasty scratches. In my opinion, the whole species is not to be trusted. We're right to put 'em behind bars in zoos. But, is that enough? I don't want to be an alarmist, but there's still a few roaming Ozarks' woods. Let the birds free I say, but lock up all the dang wolves and bears!

"Down with Bears in 2012!" could be my slogan. No one would vote for me. Then again, I don't want to be elected.

There are other things to be afraid of, of course. Like pigeons. I know I seemed pro-bird just a moment ago, but pigeons creep me out. All their cooing and fearlessness and germs. Something should be done. I like the idea of donning a military hat and ranting and raving from a pulpit about the dangers of pigeons. It's funny to me. 

These days, the things others say and think and feel and promote have been on my mind a lot. I'm sure the tornado in Joplin has had something to do with it. It's been all over the news, part of my work and seems to be dominating casual conversations.

I feel horrible, as so many people do, about the ones who died and the people who were injured, lost homes or were close to the ones that died. To think about what those most directly impacted have gone through is both deflating and disheartening. As a result of all that chaos, many in our area seem to be reflecting on the meaning of their own lives. Those who believe there is meaning. Some have used and will use the tragic event to reaffirm their own world views, regardless of whether those views have any objective merit.

Case in point: Topeka, Kan.-based Westboro Church is coming to Joplin to show support for tornadoes. The church's Web site, www.godhatesfags.com, believes, apparently, that God's wrath is both present in our everyday lives, and totally awesome! It's disturbing, of course.

I've heard and seen a lot of talk about God in connection to the EF-5 tornado since May 22. Most of it has been inspiring: People turning to God for strength; Citizens helping one another feeling compelled by their belief in a higher being and purpose; and mothers and fathers thanking God for what wasn't destroyed.

I get it. I understand why people believe in God, why they pray and why they come together when times are tough. I also understand why they wouldn't.

It's hard, but natural, to try to make sense out of something so brutal, mindless and destructive. The world is a scary place.

Happy Mother's Day!

The years go by, don't they? Today, I felt the sun penetrating a spring breeze and realized that my birthday is only about a month away. This summer, I'll take the fam on a quick trip or two, go swimming a few times, and then, before I know it, I'll be helping to pick out school clothes. Football and new shoes turns into Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Before long, the rains will bring back spring breezes.

These seasons are our fate. We're babies, then toddlers, then grandparents forever dancing and spinning around the sun.

As the summer of 1975 approached, my mother went into labor at the age of 20. From the pictures I've seen of her around that time she had long, dark hair and big glasses. She looks different now, but not too different, you know.

As a kid, what I remember most about my mother was that she was there. She was involved. She took me to my soccer games. She saved things I brought home from school.

I remember mom singing a lot. She was always very spontaneous, and very mobile. She was prone to unplanned trips to look at homes in neighborhoods we couldn't afford to move to for no reason after going to the grocery store or wherever. It's a trait I've noticed in myself as I get older. If I have time to take the long way home and turn up the radio, I do. She's the one who taught me how to drive. Now, I'm teaching Chase.

She lives in Iowa these days, but comes down to see me and my peeps, my brother and her friends three or four times a year. This last time she came down, she slept on the pullout couch she gave us. We played poker with the kids that night. She looked at a couple of my stories, and asked Val and I about work. I wonder how long it will be before Val and I are visiting our kids. I know mom really enjoyed it when our boys were still babies. We're already missing that ourselves. They're getting older.

I know what we have to look forward to. Summer's around the corner. Then fall. The long cold winter. And then it starts over.

Mothers know it, too.

That's why the good ones, like my mom, put school work on the fridges and band-aids on bruises. They come to weddings, and graduations. They pinch cheeks and take photos. They make our favorite meals. They play poker, and they ask about work.

Mom, we won't dance and spin around the sun forever. I'm old enough to know it now. Today, I just want you to know that I'm here for you. As life pushes us through the seasons, I'm here for you, too.

Love ya, mom.

Mr. Friend

The devil is a dollar bill.
Green, not red.
Its face of death
Regal. Androgynous.
Gaze at his strength.
So formal, this ugly courtship.
A queen in her ballroom gown.
Knowing no love.
Shining God's light.

The death of Mr. Greven

The highly visible and active local disability advocate Greg Greven, 42, died when his van caught on fire in his driveway Thursday night. I heard about his death from a city press release on Friday that expressed the condolences of city leaders for the chairman of the Mayor's Commission on Human Rights. I learned more about his death and its local impact in the News-Leader story that followed.

I met Greven when he was still working with the Southwest Center for Independent Living. I wrote a small feature on him for the Community Free Press as an intern called "Advocate, Volunteer, Advisor" (Page 19, Oct. 10, 2007 issue). Since being on the city beat at the business journal, I have seen Greven at every council meeting. He sat in front of me toward the back of the room. I said "hi" to him once recently, and he said "hi" back, but I don't know that he remembered me.

When I read that he'd died, I automatically said to myself, "That can't be--I just saw him Monday night." As if, my seeing him ought to have prevented his death, somehow.

My sit-down interview with Greven in 2007 left an impression on me. First of all, he could care less that I was featuring him. He was more interested in talking about issues that touched the lives of disabled people. Second, I came away from the experience sobered by the reminder that life has severe consequences.

Greven became disabled from a 1989 automobile accident. The details are fuzzy now, but I recall that he said he loved to drive fast. At the time of the interview, he was preparing to take a group of disabled individuals to Lucus Oil Speedway. His brother, Kevin Greven, was the track manager. Cars, Greg said, were a big part of his young life. He seemed genuinely excited when he talked about the track.

For whatever reason, I fell into a brief daydream looking at Greven's limp hand hanging by the side of his wheelchair on Monday night. He was directly in front of me. I tried to imagine his hand as mine. I wondered how much of it he could feel, and how often he must have been frustrated by its limited usefulness.

Greg Greven got out in the snow Monday night and went to a council meeting. He wasn't there to speak or be a sounding board for an ordinance related to accessibility. There was no such bill, and I can't think of any reason for him to be there or at any of the recent meetings except that he wanted to be.

Many may have heard about Greven's story and thought it was tragic. While his death was horrible news, I think Greven's story itself is inspiring. RIP, Mr. Greven.

Willy time, y'all

Happy Birthday, Will!

My step-son turns 19 today, and though I doubt he'll even read this, wishing the boys a happy-happy on the blog has become something of a tradition.

Lil' Will Duncan was almost 3 when I started dating his mommy in January 1995. I noticed then that he was abnormally strong for his size. These days, he beats me up at least once per visit when he's on break from MU. He likes to catch me laying around watching T.V. in my room and jump on me before I have a chance to react.

Like a fool, I normally try fight back to salvage some pride, but honestly, he pins me down with ease. I told him recently I should have been meaner to him when he was small. He agreed, and said I missed my chance.

Will is living in Columbia now, and Chase has taken over his old room. I thought Will might try to take it back on breaks, but I think he wanted Chase to have it. Will chooses the couch or stays with his Mee Maw at night, now.

When he visits, he plays his old X-Box or watches NFL Network--we agree that Deion Sanders and Rich Eisen are the best analysts around. When he's at home, he'll go for a walk around the block at least two or three times a day. If he doesn't become a computer programmer or engineer, I'm willing to bet he becomes a personal trainer. I wondered after he left for school if our neighbors noticed they weren't seeing him as much.

Will is a full-fledged grown up these days, and frankly, it's a little sad to think about. I'm not sure why, though. He's smarter, stronger, healthier and more well-rounded than I was at his age. Heck, he's got me beat now.

As he pushes his way through college and then finds his way into the working world, my hope for him is that doesn't ever feel defeated by all the morons and crazies out there. In other words, I'm proud of him. He's headstrong, smart, tough, funny and fair-minded. I couldn't have picked a better big brother for Chase, Andrew and Mason if I had tried.

Happy Birthday, Willy. M.I.Z-....

Art Hains Rocks Supreme

In case you didn't know, the best radio play-by-play caller in America is living and working in Springfield, MO.

Art Hains, the radio voice of Missouri State basketball, proved once again the other night that there is nobody in the world better at yelling.

The voice of the Bears most recently lost it when Kyle Weems sank a 3-pointer with 2.5 seconds left to sink the Jayhawk-dream-killing Northern Iowa Panthers 58-57 in Cedar Falls.

Listen to the last 30 seconds of the game by clicking this link to www.radiospringfield.com and pressing play on the 12-29 radiocast. It only takes a few seconds download, and then you can click in the middle of the white to pick a spot in the game. You can hear the end call in the 2:14 minute, but I suggest going back to a couple of minutes to get the full effect.

If you can't feel what this guy is doing, you have no soul. Go Bears!

Ask and/or tell

Ding dong the witch is dead. 


I don't know if I feel the way I do because I love to root for the underdog, or if it's because I have known family members who are gay, or if it's because I have worked with homosexuals I respected and considered to be my friends or if it's because I have a distaste for injustice in general, but the news that Don't Ask Don't Tell is soon to be repealed made me feel proud. 


I'm proud of our country, and I'm proud of our legislators for doing the right thing by standing up for the rights of homosexual citizens. 


I can't say it any better than Sen. Ron Wyden, an Oregonian democrat, said it on the floor of the Senate before the 65-31 vote on Saturday (according to the NY Times): “I don’t care who you love. If you love this country enough to risk your life for it, you shouldn’t have to hide who you are.”


Well done, gang. 

That place

Hello, my friend.
Welcome to
that place with chairs,
the most powerful idea.
It's the most powerful idea.

You have space here.
Space to be quiet, to heal.
There's a fire on a log.
We'll let you sleep in under
fat comforters. We like to sleep.
You need a warm shower?
You can throw up if you need to.
Or smoke a cigarette.
The fridge has pizza and cookie dough.
Check what's on TV.
The doors are locked and
the windows, too.
Everyone is here.

I had a song on my mind,
da-da-da-duh.
And I sang it real loud!
da-da-da-duh.
My friend, my dearest friend
da-da-da-duh.
I'll hold your face
and we'll climb a tree
and laugh into the clouds
forever. You are dead.
You are totally dead,
my friend.

Stumble on this!

I am putting up some links to some things I've found on StumbleUpon that I have found useful or humorous.

Storm Troopers 9/11

10 sites that will warp your mind

50 dumb laws

New ways to tie your shoes

Internet TV Guide

The World of Cats and Dogs

I write like...

(I write like Rudyard Kipling.) Enjoy.

Stinky is 15

Believe it or not, Chase Alexander Brown turns 15 today. Watch out Springfield drivers! Soon, little Chasio will get his permit and he'll be driving on yo' streets, and climbin' in your windows, so hide your kids, hide your wife!

The fact that I have even heard of the Bed Intruder song is a tribute to the birthday boy. But I digress. I'm here today to write about The Legend.

The Legend of the Chase

Now that Chase is getting older, I want him to know more about his origins, or at least, what we imagine his origins to be. The whole truth may never be known.

From what we can tell, Stinky, as I affectionately call him, was born in the Mark Twain National Forest in the late fall of 1995. We believe he lived his first month of life with a pack of blonde wolves. His mother and I found him with his head stuck in a log near the Finley River while on a brisk country hike.

Once loosed from his from his fallen tree, we saw a smiling boy with a headful of blonde hair. Valerie, who has an undying love for all of God's creatures no matter how ugly, insisted that we put the poor animal down. But, for reasons that are unclear to me now, I put my hand in front of her gun, and I said, "no, we can raise him as our own."

As he got older, we worked hard to make him just like a normal boy. We gave him regular daily haircuts and eventually weened him off of squirrels and toilet water. He is, in many ways, our greatest work.

Those who know him today would hardly believe that in the first grade Chase ran the mile at school on all fours (4:52 is still a Missouri elementary record), or that when he was 9 he nearly replaced Hugh Jackman's prized role in the X-Men movie series. Today, Chase is on the debate team at Parkview, and he plays basketball with real kids. We are so proud of how hard he's worked!

Over the years, I have taken the boy I call my son back to the forest many, many times to see if he might stay. But, his yelps of fear always told me, "Don't go, daddy. I'm one of you." And looking at how far he's come now, I can honestly say I'm glad he always managed to catch me before I got back to the car.

Happy Birthday, buddy! We don't hate you!

New Jobby Job

I want to let my general blogging audience (probably millions of people) know what most of my Facebook friends have already heard: I got a new gig. On Monday, I accepted a job offer from the Springfield Business Journal. Starting next week, I'll be the new reporter on staff.

I'm excited about the job, and I'm anxious to get there and get to work. In my time at CFP, I found that I really enjoyed writing business stories and features, and so this feels like a natural fit for me. Also, I will be covering Springfield City Council meetings, which takes advantage of my experience and feeds my somewhat dorky interest in our local government.

In the days to come, I'm curious to see how this new career affects what I publish here. I wouldn't expect things to change too much, but I suppose I will want to be careful not to be too political. It may be that I will start a new website or blog at some point where I can be anonymous, but still have an outlet for some of my more creative ideas. I don't know, yet.

Regardless, it's a new day for me, and I'm excited to get busy on getting busy. Thanks, SBJ. You have not made a mistake.

Ballot guide for Nov. 2

If you would like to review the measures on the ballot before voting tomorrow click here.

If you have questions about what to expect at the polls or want to know who to call if you think your voting rights may be violated click here.

If you want to know where your Congressional candidates stand on the issues (Dist. 7- SW Missouri) click here.

If you want to brush up on State House and Senate candidates in the Springfield area click here (voters' guide found in Oct. 20 issue by clicking on the newspaper icon).

If you want to learn more about the drugs you'll need to take before and after you vote click here.

Obama-scare

You don't have to be too much into the whole reading thing to know that many conservatives are looking forward to the midterm elections. While political forecasters may disagree about the size and scope of the revolt, they all agree that Republicans should see their numbers in Congress increase significantly as a result.

Fine. But something about the hypocrisy in the air is making my soul feel ache-y and feverish.

Moments ago I watched a commercial that featured Roy Blunt saying he wanted to fix Medicare. You know, that government-run health care program for seniors. Blunt, apparently, is not ideologically opposed to Medicare. For if he were, it seems he would want to repeal it. He would say that the government can't run anything and shouldn't be providing socialist entitlement programs when the private sector is perfectly capable of insuring seniors.

Libertarians are often clear and consistent about what they feel the role of government should be. In short, military, cops, and that's about it. Libertarians believe a free market can better provide for many of the things we socialize (education, health care, etc.) and the government's primary role should be to protect individual freedoms (in other words, it shouldn't legislate morality).

I've often romanticized Libertarian philosophy. But ultimately, I believe a government run by elected officials can oversee effective educational and health care systems. Most people, like good ole' Roy, aren't ready to get rid of public schools or Medicare.

And, by the way, fixing Medicare is a good aim. Fixing Social Security is a good aim, too.

With the Obama administration in place since January '09, I've sat back and watched a number of conservatives demonize our president's liberal "agenda." At times, it's been funny to me because I remember well the calls of "Impeach Bush" that seemed so loud just two and three years ago.

Now, as I watch political commercials rail against "Obamacare," and the left's "extreme" vision for America, I can't help but feel sickened.

If you count yourself among the conservatives anxious to vote on Nov. 2, I'd like you to first consider a couple of things. Then, by all means, vote away.

1. A stimulus was needed.

When the economy began to tank in 2008, and the fed cut interest rates next to zero with little effect, pressure for the government to do something became a reality for people of both parties. It's easy for people to forget, but Sen. John McCain's own economic stimulus plan (proposed in Feb. 2009) was $421 billion. Neither political party was suggesting that deficit spending was irresponsible when we were still on the brink of Depression.

By late 2009, many felt Obama's $787 billion stimulus had had at least a stabilizing effect on the economy. Some others felt the stimulus wasn't aggressive enough.

2. Obamacare does not exist.

Democrats in Congress under the guidance of their president had hoped to create a "public option" as part of their plan to insure more Americans and reduce medical expenses in the summer of '09. But, amid talk of death panels and town hall forums gone crazy, Dems abandoned the idea in favor of reforms deemed acceptable by the more conservative members of their party. The result was legislation that featured an expansion of Medicaid and mirrored a conservative alternative to Clinton's universal coverage attempt of the 90s: individual mandates.

The truth is that health care costs in this country have been out of control for years. Clearly, industry reform was a priority for Obama. Was this a bad goal? No way.

3. Bailouts were bipartisan.

I was lucky enough to interview Roy Blunt in 2008 moments after he addressed local citizens' concerns about the TARP legislation (a.k.a. Wall-Street bailout) for which he helped secure votes. In a recent Columbia-Missourian article, Blunt states that the $700 billion measure designed to save troubled banks and financial institutions "may have prevented real economic disaster."

The article points out that while Robin Carnahan supported the stimulus, she opposed the bailout. Blunt, perhaps obviously, hated the stimulus but thought TARP was necessary. Neither have been very popular with voters, and are often listed as reasons for the emergence of the Tea Party.

On Nov. 2, doors to polling places across the nation will open. People will file in, mark this box or that, and collectively, their voices will be heard. It is my hope that they think before they speak.

Album videos

Today I was looking up a video on YouTube when I got another amazing idea that I I can't really profit from in any way...wait a minute...prepare yourselves...okay, you're ready: Album videos. That's right, a video that goes from one song to another in one continuous visual vision.

Ask yourself, how often have I yearned to see a video of a favorite song on a kick-ass album for which no video has been made? Answer: too many times. Well, not anymore thanks to album videos!

For too long thick-headed and cold-hearted record execs have pushed singles and one-song videos. Boo, I say! But now, with album videos, everyone will be happy forever.

But, you point out, there may be a problem if the songs on your favorite artist's album are just too different. And, you add, what if no distributor wants to fund what amounts to an hour-long movie for what's likely to amount to no greater return on investment? To you, I respond as follows: Get off my back! I just wanted to see a video for Kid Cudi's Heart of a Lion. Is that so wrong? "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Yeah, No, Yeah, Yeah!"

Happy 8th Birthday!

Today, my son Mason turns 8-years-old. He is, without a doubt, the entertainer of our family. If you stick a camera in his face, you'll never know what kind of face you'll get for a shot. Serious, sad, goofy, he seems to have a million poses. While we have never favored him, it always seems that if we are taking pictures at a family outing, we'll end up with more of Mason than anyone else.

One thing that people tend to find out quickly is that Mason loves to have a good time. He has a huge laugh, and quite often, the worse the joke the bigger it is. And like his father, when you catch him in the mood to tell a joke, he has a determination to his delivery that is usually more funny than his material. Mason is the only child of mine known to regularly make up his own jokes.

I've said it before, but Mason is also quite an artist. While he does great work at school, he is also known for many of his off-the-clock pieces. One of the things our family loves are Mason's pictures of Chase drawn in scenes of great peril. We're not sure how this started, but Mason has compiled at least 20 or so drawings of his older brother facing an impressive variety of life-threatening situations. Chase, to his credit, has been a good sport about seeing his likeness falling off a cliff into shark-infested waters or resting on a plate near a hungry lion. Were it another kid, we might be concerned about a violent imagination. But Mason is just a goofball; he cracks up at our reactions.

Over the last couple of years I've also been very happy to see a sensitive and kind Mason emerging. He appears to want to be a good teammate, student, friend, son, and grandson. He is also not afraid of work, and he really seems to be self-motivated. He has what all parents hope to find in their children, a good heart.

Mason loves playing basketball, riding his bike, running fast, watching T.V. and playing with friends. He routinely tells us more about the events of his daily life than we would ever think to ask. And the stories are always very entertaining. We love you, buddy! Happy Birthday!

Reggie, the "Tank"

Alright, so I'm a sucker for a good story. While I normally pride myself as someone who lets e-mail forwards die with me, I recently received one that I thought could make my momma cry, and therefore, deserved to be passed along. Who knows if this is true, and it will take a few minutes, but this one is worth reading. Enjoy.

###
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 or 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 cell phone 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
me and everything'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.. 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 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 take 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 have to give up Tank
in order to do it, 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. 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 whatdaya 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.
###