lifeserial:

And we kept saying how we’d never stay in Los Angeles forever, how it’s not a forever-place. Except this morning, staring at my pants in the closet, I thought that we’d eventually just find ourselves having stayed here forever. You and me and everyone else we know in different formations or pairings, maybe, with lives that have gotten bulky or skeletal from all of the decisions and the choices and the living. We’ll be closer to the water somehow in an old house with all of the old things we’ve collected as we’ve collectively gotten older. You and me and everyone else, older and still here. Because I don’t want to wear pants, and here I can most often wear last year’s pants that I’ve hacked off above the knee, and I can most often wear some T-shirt I’ve had for so long and washed and washed till it’s gotten thin around the bones in my shoulders. And when it’s the first day of spring and it’s not snowing and it’s overcast but it’s not cold, not cold the way that other people know cold and live with cold, we will just wander out of the house in whatever with our hair saying whatever and our faces saying whatever and our mouths saying whatever. Of course there will be those times when the ground got upset and our whole houses moved on their own, but then I’ll think about how I, too, get upset—you and me and everyone else, we get upset sometimes—and so…whatever. Hollywood will still hang around the corner with a wide white smile that’s so horrific I gasp and shake my head and maybe laugh, and I’ll have to force-remember how there is a lot of everything else here too. There is a lot, and that is what has made this not a forever-place and a place we’ve found ourselves staying forever, looking at our aging faces in the mirror fifteen, twenty, thirty years later and seeing palm trees out the window behind us. Sit on the sofa, stare at the wall, walk by the ocean, run. You and me and everyone else we know, different but still holding onto some shred of the same, in tiny colored boxes, living our secret little lives.

(via tumblangeles)

fyeahadventuretime:

Ahhh Batman quotes ftw!

(Source: blakanubis, via spookyfemme)

recklessisawreck:

fauxboy:

andyandme:

doodleloser:

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.”

imnotgunnacryimnotgunnacryimnotgunnacry…

…whelp, I’m crying.

i am crey

crying
; ___ ; 

Waaaaay too many things about this story rang completely false to me. What kind of shelter just holds dogs indefinitely that aren’t allowed to be adopted out? Why would someone who loved their dog punish them by changing their name for no reason? Why would a local hero have no friends to leave their dog with during deployment? I went to snopes and searched “Paul Mallory” and surprise, surprise, it’s total bullshit. 

There are plenty of stories of real sacrifices by our armed forces. Just search “military homecoming dog” on YouTube if you need to see real people who have to leave everything behind, including their dogs, and how grateful they are to come home. Or if you need to ugly cry and don’t have time to watch Fried Green Tomatoes. 

Even after his owner, Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, was killed in a helicopter crash in Afghanistan last summer, this dog refused to leave his side throughout his funeral. This actually happened, there are verifiable news stories and a video from the funeral (so many tears). I am far from a fan of my country’s military engagements or military culture, but phony baloney sob stories cheapens the sacrifice that members of the armed forces and their families (including dogs, sometimes) really go through. That ain’t right. 

(via alibuttons)

It’s cold and rainy back at home, and my mommy just sent me a picture of my babies all bundled up. <3 <3 <3

dannybrito:

i love dogs so much 

My heart. I miss my dogs so badddddddddd. It’s been almost two weeks but it feels like a lifetime. My mom and bff are doing their best to keep me posted with pictures, here’s an one of Taco where you can see my ear and tumblr dashboard in the background lolz

Dogs in hats FTW

(Source: redsuspenders, via youidiotkid)