I met Tank when I began walking his pack mate, Pearl.

Tank wasn’t officially a client. He was old, and his bad hips wouldn’t let him go for walks anymore.

He was an English Bulldog and as loving and wonderful as could be. I always had a belly rub and a head scratch for him whenever I was there.

One day, I didn’t realize Tank was behind me at the gate, and he slipped through. Once in the driveway, he began moseying toward the street. (Tank didn’t move very fast. He moseyed.)

I called, “Tank, come back.” 

I got a little butt wiggle of acknowledgment, but he kept right on going.

Again I called, “Tank!” Again, the butt wiggle.

By now I was heading after him and caught up before he reached the street. I pointed toward the gate and told him to go. He slowly turned around and moseyed back up the driveway and through the gate.

I could often find Tank lounging on one of the covered dog cots. He’d be all stretched out and would look over at me, expecting his pets.

I hadn’t seen Tank in a couple of years and recently learned that he had passed away. Though Tank wasn’t an official client, I really loved the big guy. He lived life at his own pace and was one of those dogs who was simply impossible not to love.