Oh, Jeez. Memorial Day.

Memorial Day. The Internet is ablaze with it. All the proper things are being said, all the good, right sentiments are being expressed.

Yes, we – and I include myself – love our war heroes. My adopted Dad was a medic in the Navy, my two brothers were in Vietnam, and I have plenty of friends whom I truly respect for their service. I see the memorials and the fields of crosses – I made a point of visiting the Vietnam Memorial in Washington DC two of the times I was there – and I feel genuinely sad and angry about it all.

But since junior high school, I’ve had this thing for pep rallies. Or against them, I guess I should say. Because it worries me when people are driven together by the spur of strong emotions. It worries me even more when I can’t see who’s wearing the spurs.

I’ll give you an example making the rounds on Facebook. Read it and stand by for an editorial comment after:

 

Reggie, the Adopted Black Lab

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.

I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. “Okay, Reggie,” I said out loud, “let’s see if your previous owner has any advice.”
_______________

To Whomever 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. He knew something was different.

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 hoards 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 them, so be careful. Don’t do it by any roads.

Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones — “sit,” “stay,” “come,” “heel.”

He knows hand signals, too: He knows “ball” and “food” and “bone” and “treat” like nobody’s business.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He’s up on his shots. 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. 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.

And that’s why I need to share one more bit of info with you … His name’s not 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. But if someone is reading this … well it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is “Tank.” Because that is what I drive.

I told the shelter that they couldn’t make “Reggie” available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You 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 CO 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.

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, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me.

If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US 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. 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 into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it? Damned sure did to me.

Which made me hate it all the more when I realized midway through that it’s a bit of manipulative bullshit. Snopes gives it a “False” but softens it by saying it’s a “figurative truth.”

Here’s the thing: If we buy into bullshit tearjerker stories like this – and note that this is ostensibly an IRAQ veteran, and that he says “If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US …”

… as if Iraq was this war to save all the good things of western civilization, when it was a needless goddam killing machine drummed up by a bunch of gutless bitches like Dick Cheney and George W. Bush, people worse than murderers because they did it for money and power …

… we become supporters of that killing. We become accomplices to the murder.

Worse, we cheat the memory of heroes by allowing ourselves to be dragged into more of the lies that killed them.

Whoever wrote this, whoever engineered it to tug our feelings and get us to yet again buy into this massive lie – whoever shamelessly uses our love of dogs to get us to accept the unjustified killing of strangers off in some distant land, and the needless sacrifice of our own young men and women in that effort – is a truly shitty human being.

Speaking directly to that faceless author for a moment: Screw you, mister, and your insidious little lies.

I wouldn’t pour horse piss on your head if your fucking hair was on fire.

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  • Pierce R. Butler

    Starting about midnight on Friday, I and about 40 friends set up the 6th Gainesville (FL) Memorial Mile, a long array of 6,446 plastic “tombstones” each with the name, age, branch, rank, hometown and date of death of a US troop reported as a fatality in the wars against Afghanistan and Iraq.

    Experience has taught us that this display will get vandalized if left unguarded, so each night since I’ve been part of a small crew keeping an eye on it – last night entailing 6 hours of soaking from TS Beryl in the process.

    We also include a “Cost of War” set-up, including posters of the relevant stats, blown-up explicit photos of a (now legless) local vet (with his and his family’s permission), and – most years but alas not this time – a “peace ribbon” set of memorial artworks curated by Code Pink people acknowledging all – US and Afghan/Iraqi – casualties.

    Though at first having a peace group do this provoked some backlash, by now this has become a revered (except for a few late-night drunks) local event. Even some committed Republicans support us with repeated large donations. I’ve ceased to marvel at how many visitors thank us for our patriotism in doing this without recognizing the rebuke implicit in the too-long-to-see-all-at-one-sight rows of little “headstones”, but this always adds to the melancholy of the event.

    Tonight we take the whole thing down at sunset. Many of us will be taking big boxes of markers home, each one to be individually cleaned, dried, counted and sorted, marked for replacement when necessary – many hundreds of hours of behind-the-scenes labor even before we cut new headstones and print out more labels for the many hundreds of US military personnel now alive who will comprise the expanded yardage of next year’s (>) Mile.

    During this process, icasualties.org has published the names of three more US troops killed (plus a Brit and five “Name not released yet” fatalities).

    War sucks just as bad under Obama as it did under Bush.

    • Hank Fox

      Pierce, thank you for caring so much, and for making this sadly neglected point.

  • http://sheilacrosby.com Sheila Crosby

    At The Cenotaph
    I saw the Prince of Darkness, with his Staff,
    Standing bare-headed by the Cenotaph:
    Unostentatious and respectful, there
    He stood, and offered up the following prayer.
    ‘Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial
    Means; their discredited ideas revive;
    Breed new belief that War is purgatorial
    Proof of the pride and power of being alive;
    Men’s biologic urge to readjust
    The Map of Europe, Lord of Hosts, increase;
    Lift up their hearts in large destructive lust;
    And crown their heads with blind vindictive Peace.’
    The Prince of Darkness to the Cenotaph
    Bowed. As he walked away I heard him laugh.

    Siegfried Sassoon (who threw the ribbon from his Military Cross into the river Mersey).

  • Leslie

    I don’t understand why the dog’s original owner didn’t want to give the shelter the dog’s real name. All it served to do was cause the animal not to be a companion to his new owner because he wasn’t being called “Tank”.

    Thankfully, I have managed to dissuade those who send such stories from sending them to me. I don’t like to be emotionally manipulated by fiction. Never have, never will.

    Pierce Butler: that is a fantastic visual statement you participate in. I sure hope it opens eyes and minds.

  • ReenieBess

    OMD! Finally someone saying what I have been stewing about. I had the misfortune to click on to a few minutes of the National Memorial Day concert on tv! Speaking of maudlin, exploitative mass-pseudo-displays of emotion. Ick!! Ick!!
    I simply cannot believe that whoever is “in charge” has those widows and small children of vets sitting there in the front CRYING pretty much the whole time, for the cameras!A big public weep-fest. And we must maintain our photogenic tears for the several hours we are on camera! Really,really sick.
    I am really sad and sorry that so many lose their lives for no good reason in these wars, too. Give these people a break!


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