By Ellis Henican
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As timely as it is heartwarming, Tuesday’s Promise is an inspiring memoir of love, service, teamwork, and the remarkable bond between humans and canines.
Following the success of his New York Times bestseller, Until Tuesday, Iraq War veteran Luis Carlos Montalvan advocated for America’s wounded warriors and the healing powers of service dogs.
In this spectacular memoir, Luis and Tuesday brought their healing mission to the next level, showing how these beautifully trained animals could assist soldiers, veterans, and many others with mental and physical disabilities. They rescued a forgotten Tuskegee airman, battled obstinate VA bureaucrats, and provided solace to war heroes coast-to-coast.
As Luis and Tuesday celebrated exhilarating victories, a grave obstacle threatened their work. Luis made great progress battling his own PTSD, but his physical wounds got so bad that he began using a wheelchair. He needed to decide whether to amputate his leg and carry on with a bionic prosthesis. Even as he struggled with dramatic emotional and physical changes, ten-year-old Tuesday was lovingly by his side through it all.
Luis’ death in December 2016 was another terrible tragedy of the invisible wounds of war. This book was his last letter of love to his best friend, Tuesday, and to veterans, readers, friends, and fellow dog lovers everywhere.
I NOTICED HIS CAP EVEN BEFORE I SAW THE MAN SITTING BENEATH IT.
"332nd Fighter Group," the hat read, and I knew immediately what that meant. The man had to be one of the legendary Tuskegee Airmen who'd fought so valiantly in World War II for a military and a nation still divided by race.
He was old enough. He was African American. And now he was parked in a wheelchair, unattended, in a busy hallway at the decrepit VA hospital in lower Manhattan, while his couldn't-be-bothered attendant was jabbering away on her cell phone.
Tuesday noticed him first. Tuesday often notices things before I do. He's more intuitive—and, yes, far better trained. As soon as we made it past the elaborate security checkpoint at the hospital's main entrance—always an ordeal with a service dog—Tuesday was tugging on his leash and signaling to me: Luis! Wait a second! That man needs something!
I'd read plenty about these flying aces, how they had trained in a tiny speck of dirt called Tuskegee, Alabama, and went on to complete 1,578 missions through heavy combat in North Africa and Italy. The Airmen flew hand-me-down Republic P-47 Thunderbolts and North American P-51 Mustangs with the tails and rudders painted bright red. That's why the Airmen were often called "Red Tails" by other fliers in the Army Air Corps, the predecessor to our modern U.S. Air Force. The Airmen's wartime accomplishments included destroying or damaging 409 enemy aircraft, 40 boats and barges, and 745 boxcars, rolling stock, and locomotives. Using only machine-gun fire, a Tuskegee Airman was credited with sinking the Giuseppe Missori, one of the fiercest destroyers in Mussolini's Italian Navy. Long before the modern civil rights era, the Tuskegee Airmen taught a lesson to a nation not quite ready to learn it: Talent, bravery, and patriotism have nothing to do with skin color. But until that day in the hospital, I had never personally met one of these humble heroes.
The man in the wheelchair looked old, old in a way that old veterans sometimes do—gnarled and twisted, blank and glum, like he'd seen a lot and done a lot but couldn't hide what the years had done to him. His spine was bent with scoliosis. His eyes were impossible to see behind Coke-bottle cataract glasses. He certainly didn't appear eager for chitchat.
Tuesday and I had come to the hospital for one of our biweekly counseling sessions, the standard-issue treatment for an Iraq or Afghanistan War combat veteran who battled raging, full-blown PTSD. The truth was that Tuesday, my golden retriever service dog, had done far more to ease my symptoms than any human Department of Veterans Affairs employee ever had, helping me secure the control and the confidence I needed to leave my apartment, quit drinking so much, finish graduate school, write a bestselling book, rebuild my relationship with my family, and begin traveling around the country advocating for America's battered and ignored military veterans, among others. But as good as Tuesday was at his job, talk therapy was important, too. I'd finally found a caring therapist at the VA. So here we were for another forty-five minute fuel stop on the long road to recovery.
All around us were sad-looking patients and overwhelmed or distracted staff. Veterans on crutches, veterans on walkers, veterans on canes, veterans in wheelchairs—the few who were walking without assistance shuffled along. Everyone else seemed to be waiting in lines that made the lines at the Department of Motor Vehicles look efficient and quick. There were lines to get prescriptions filled. Lines to see a doctor, a therapist, or a nurse. Lines to get a number to stand in another line. Old soldiers don't die, it seemed. They just shuffle down the hallway or wait in endless lines at the VA.
No one seemed to be complaining. Most of the patients looked heavily drugged to me, like zombies more than warriors, though clearly they had all once been vigorous and young. Almost everyone seemed to have a cap, a patch, a T-shirt, or some other insignia connecting them to a branch of the service and a recent or ancient American war. "Marines." "Airborne." "Korea." Many of them from an era when a patch or hat saying they'd served was enough to command instant respect. God bless 'em. They are my brother and sister veterans. They deserve so much better than this. But the disrespect they've gotten and the treatment they haven't received leaves far too many of them in hallways like this one.
Could Tuesday tell the man was in physical pain? Did his canine Spidey Sense detect that the man was having a combat flashback? Was it just a vibe that here was someone who could really use a hug? It could have been any of that. Or all of it. Over the past five years, he had woken me from enough nightmares, also known as night terrors, for me to recognize the signs: Tuesday picks up on all kinds of things.
We had time before our appointment. Given the lines, we always arrive early at the VA. And I trust Tuesday enough that when he says, "Stop," I say, "You bet! Right here!" It's almost always because someone needs something, and Tuesday thinks he can help. Most of the time, that someone is me. But sometimes, it's a total stranger.
I shot the inattentive attendant my stink eye, that powerful stare of negative energy, my sharpest nonverbal judgment of that's-not-cool-ignoring-your-patient-like-that. On this occasion, the stink-eye effort produced exactly zero results. The woman was still prattling away on her phone, totally useless in her blue scrubs. As Tuesday prepared to step forward, I turned my attention from the careless caregiver. I got a closer look at the man in the wheelchair.
The man seemed almost catatonic. His only expression was blank. The attendant still hadn't so much as glanced at him. I hated the idea that someone so uncaring might be taking care of my mom or my dad someday or one of America's veteran heroes. Her inattentiveness was the opposite of everything I had learned as an army leader, where initiative-taking and selflessness and working to the bone were what kept my soldiers and me alive and allowed us to accomplish the mission, no matter how tough the mission was. We do our best to look out for each other in far-away battle zones. We don't come home expecting to be treated like nearly invisible zombies shuffling down the hallways, pieces of meat rolled around in chairs. This man was someone who needed real attention, not the fake attention of a blue-scrubbed clock-puncher at the Manhattan VA.
"Go say 'hi,' Tuesday," I told him. "Go say 'hi.'"
Tuesday approached slowly.
He put his head gently on the man's left thigh just above the knee.
The man didn't seem to notice.
He burrowed his nose into the crease beneath the man's leg, playfully smooshing around down there.
I figured I'd better say something. Without a word of invitation, my loyal service dog had just entered this stranger's personal space. Now Tuesday had his snout resting on the old man's lap.
"This is my service dog, Tuesday," I said, trying to sound upbeat. "He needed to say 'hello' to you."
Was the man going to respond? Did he understand what was happening? Was he even awake?
Ten seconds passed. It seemed like ten minutes.
It was like Tuesday was pulling the choke starter on an ancient lawn mower, struggling with all he had to get the old clunker to start. This could take a few pulls, I thought to myself.
Finally, the old guy lifted his chin.
"Tuesday?" he sputtered. "What kind of name is that?"
No hi. No smile. No nice-to-meet-you. I guess I was just glad he reacted at all.
Tuesday's eyebrows started dancing. His eyes darted back and forth. His tail began to wag. His snout brightened into a warm, welcoming smile.
"You're right," I said. "That's an unusual name for a dog. I didn't name him. Tuesday is the name he came with. No one really knows what it means."
The old man kept staring. At least now I could tell he was awake.
"He's my dog," I said. "And my best friend."
"I know he's a dog," the man answered.
This was hard. But a little grumpiness wasn't going to deter Tuesday. He was determined to turn this man's day around. So we stuck with it. Tuesday just needed a little verbal help from his wingman.
"Well, my dog saw you," I continued. "And he wanted to say hello."
That was all it took.
Tuesday pressed his furry golden coat against the man's spindly legs and let out a few affectionate doggie murmurs. The man's mood suddenly lifted. The tone in his voice softened, too. In those few seconds, he'd gone from catatonic to curmudgeon to grandpa. Believe me, that doesn't happen by accident.
To the casual observer, Tuesday was just saying hi. But I knew better. I knew he was also taking the old veteran's pulse, one of many things he learned to do in his two years of intense training as a service dog. He was listening to the man's respiration. He was smelling whether the stranger was experiencing pain. Here Tuesday was, inside this huge and depressing veterans' hospital, staffed with hundreds of trained doctors, nurses, and cell-phone addicted aides. And the golden retriever was the one triaging the patient, checking this old man's vital signs—and making a new friend at the same time.
Dogs are amazing, aren't they?
With a little groan from the effort, the man's left hand came over Tuesday's head and started gently stroking. The man rested his right hand in the soft fur behind Tuesday's neck. This was exactly what Tuesday was reaching for, not because he wanted to be petted, though when he isn't working he does love that. Tuesday wanted the man to feel better. He wanted the man to smile. He wanted to shine some affection on someone who clearly needed attention. He wanted to deliver relief. Smack in the middle of this bustling VA hallway, he recognized that this man looked all alone and decided to remedy that.
I am used to this sort of thing.
Tuesday and I have been together for eight years now, and I am still amazed at how he can pierce these situations in ways humans can't. It no longer surprises me, but I am still in awe. As we travel the country, Tuesday keeps radiating that warm, loving light of his. And people are almost always unable to resist the power of that glow.
This time, Tuesday's life force started one man's engine and suddenly he was humming along. The difference was sufficiently striking that even the inattentive attendant couldn't help but notice. Suddenly, she was smiling. "I have to go," I heard her say into the phone, and then she too was bending over, petting Tuesday.
We've had thousands of encounters like that over the past eight years. Big ones. Small ones. Some I've totally forgotten. Others I never can. In connecting with Tuesday, countless lives have been changed.
The man's weathered face transformed as he smiled broadly. Behind the Coke-bottle glasses, I still couldn't see his eyes, but I'll bet they were sparkling. Unfortunately, it was time for our appointment and we had to go.
"It's been a real pleasure to meet you, Tuesday," the veteran announced, now speaking in a voice that hinted at the confident warrior he had once been. "My name's Harold. Most people call me Harry. You can call me whichever you like."
The man turned and looked up at me with pride, slowly straightening his frame until he sat taller in the chair. "I was a pilot in the Second World War. I flew with the 332nd Fighter Group. They called us the Tuskegee Airmen. We were something special, we were."
Just then, a nicely dressed woman walked up with a little girl who must have been seven or eight years old.
"There you are," the woman said to Harry, and then to me: "I'm his granddaughter. This is his great-granddaughter, Ella."
The little girl craned her neck to look up and told me, "Grampa Harry lives with us."
"So nice to meet you both," I said. "This great man was just saying hello to Tuesday, my service dog."
Harry took his eyes off Tuesday long enough to glance up at me. "What a wonderful dog you have," he said. "I am so glad the two of you decided to say hello."
I didn't have to utter another word.
A "Red Wing" was taking flight again. Lifted by the spirit of a special golden retriever, the man soared.
Tale of the Dog
Love never ends.
1 CORINTHIANS 13:8
WHEN TUESDAY FIRST CAME INTO MY LIFE, I WASN'T IN MUCH BETTER shape than the Airman in the wheelchair at the Manhattan VA, though I'm sure he had a good fifty years on me. I was at least as glum as he was before he met Tuesday. Life-or-death combat can do that to a person. I wasn't sleeping well. I had frequent headaches and panic attacks. I was drinking too much and gobbling pills. My marriage had been a casualty of war. It was a struggle to keep appointments, and all my friendships were strained. I walked with a limp and, even worse, I was too wracked with anxiety to really go anywhere. Day and night, I sat in my cramped Brooklyn apartment and phoned down to the local deli for food. This wasn't living. It was barely existing. I was back from Iraq and out of the army and more or less waiting around to die. I would not have called myself actively suicidal. Suicide takes initiative. Bummed out and distracted as I was, I didn't have the focus to end it all. But somewhere inside of me—thank God!—was a little voice that kept whispering, "You can do better than this. You can do better than this."
People who know me know this story. One day, I got an email from a veterans' organization about a nonprofit group called ECAD, which stood for Educated Canines Assisting with Disabilities. ECAD was looking to match disabled war veterans with service dogs. Even in the heavy darkness, I figured that might be worth a try.
I met a woman named Lu Picard, who ran the organization. She trained service dogs for people with physical disabilities—amputees, the visually impaired, people with muscular dystrophy and multiple sclerosis. But Lu didn't see why her work should stop there. She was convinced that a well-trained dog could be immensely helpful to someone who needed psychological assistance as well. Lu wasn't entirely alone in this belief, but she didn't have much company back then. Her timing couldn't have been more perfect, for me and for a whole generation of other men and women returning to America from Iraq and Afghanistan. Many of us—no one could say exactly how many, but hundreds of thousands for sure—were suffering from an array of conditions that experts lumped under the term post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. After decades of misunderstanding, downplaying, and denying these "invisible wounds of war," military officials, veterans' advocates, psychologists, and even a few dog trainers were coming to recognize PTSD as the massive epidemic it was. "We have to do something about this," quite a few of them began to say, though not quite sure what that something was. Among the many approaches that seemed worth trying was the idea of partnering highly trained service dogs with men and women affected by the intense stresses of combat.
The dog Lu paired with me, an instinctively loving and exquisitely trained golden retriever with the mysterious name Tuesday, would help me change my life in dramatic and profound ways. But why should anyone be surprised by that? Dogs have been assisting human beings almost since the beginning of time.
The next time you hear someone say, "It's a dog's world," or "We're all going to the dogs," just agree. That's been true since the days when human beings were grunting instead of talking and still dragging each other around by the hair. Dogs aren't only our best friends. They are also some of our oldest and most talented companions.
There's a reason 40 percent of households in America now include at least one dog. Many reasons, actually. Dogs are our pets, our children, and our caregivers. They love us, teach us, entertain us, work with us, protect us, and help in more ways than most people imagine. Dogs are doing a whole lot more than fetching the newspaper from the front lawn and rolling over on command, though I certainly don't minimize either of those.
The close relationship between humans and canines goes back at least 40,000 years, well before history was written down. Modern genetic testing has proven that, at about that time, dogs diverged from an extinct wolflike canid in Eurasia, and they've been with us ever since. Yes, cave men and cave women had cave dogs, and I'm almost certain those cave dogs had their own names. Why wouldn't they? The cave people had to call them something.
Cats have been around a while too. House cats are clearly depicted in Egyptian paintings from 3,600 years ago. That's about the time Mesopotamians were busy inventing the wheel. And cat-loving archeologists were practically purring a decade or so ago when a Neolithic grave excavated in Cyprus contained two skeletons laid close together—a human and a cat. That ancient skeleton was no slinky feline. It more resembled a large African wildcat. But still. From that evidence we know that the feline-human relationship extends at least 9,500 years—about one-quarter as far back as humans and dogs.
Sorry, Fluffy! It's dogs over cats… again!
If it weren't for the dog, human civilization couldn't possibly have evolved the way it did. Early humans had very few tools and no developed language or writing. We were not the dominant beings we are today—the undisputed alpha predators. We were fighting against the elements and many other alpha predators for food, shelter, security, and all the basics needed to sustain human life. We often lost. Then, the dog came along. All of a sudden, we had a creature who could alert us to threats we couldn't detect ourselves—human threats, other animal threats, weather threats. Dogs enabled us to hunt better. They were uniquely able to help us track and kill for food. That is not surprising. Running with four legs beats running with two legs. Dogs could also smell things we couldn't. Their sense of smell, scientists now calculate, is 10,000 to 100,000 times more acute than ours.
There's a reason for this. Dog noses aren't like human noses, which have to inhale and exhale through the same narrow passages. Dog noses exhale through slits in the side, keeping those smells separate from the new smells that are coming in. Basically, they never stop sniffing new smells. Compared to dogs, we might as well be walking around with clothespins on our noses.
Dogs also enabled us to start keeping livestock. Have you ever tried to catch a chicken, a pig, or a sheep when it's running away from you? One trip to a livestock farm or a petting zoo will teach you that human beings are not very good herders. For eons, and still today, most of the livestock on the planet is herded by dogs. From Anatolian shepherds to Australian cattle dogs, from Belgian sheepdogs to Bernese mountain dogs, herding breeds are hard at work. There's no reason to believe they will ever be replaced.
Dogs have played a direct role in many other human endeavors—especially agriculture. For as long as we've grown our own food, dogs have protected our harvests against rodents, birds, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and many other critters that could wreak havoc on a field of crops. Understanding all this, our forty-millennium relationship with canines makes perfect sense. Dogs have been essential to our becoming civilized.
Fast-forward to the present: Dogs are as vital to human beings today as they've ever been, if not more so. Canines work with the United States military in more than one hundred countries. We have dogs at our borders protecting our agriculture against insects and other pests, not to mention keeping illegal drugs and human threats out. Right now, wherever you are, dogs are patrolling in your community, helping the police. And don't forget the countless businesses and residences with "Beware of Dog" signs warning assorted human predators they'd better stay away.
And why stop there?
Dogs today are doing things to help people that canines have never done before, things cynologists have long suspected dogs to be capable of. Cynologist is not a word most people know, but it should be. Cynology is the study of things related to canines. These studies have proved that dogs are able to help humans in ways far beyond herding and hunting and protection. Everyone has seen dogs guiding the blind or the hearing impaired. They still do plenty of guide work, but the world is finally learning that their talents go far beyond that. Dogs are outsmarting high-priced medical machinery. Dogs are doing things that doctors can't. Dogs are helping people with diabetes by detecting whether their blood sugar is too high or too low and alerting them to take their medicine. We have dogs who prompt humans with epilepsy to the symptoms leading up to seizures. They do that by smelling the chemicals and minerals secreted through sweat, then warning their human companions to take medicine or to sit down so they don't fall and hurt themselves. It's said that one in sixty-eight children is born with autism, a condition that has isolated children from their peers and families. Today, dogs are improving the lives of those kids, teaching them to communicate and interact with the world. And other service dogs, dogs like Tuesday, are helping more and more people every day to mitigate disabilities of every sort. No one has a complete list of all the disabilities that dogs help with. No one ever will. Once compiled, it would have to be continually updated. Therapy dogs visit hospitals and schools and retirement facilities and nursing homes, bringing a cold, wet nose, and a furry spirit to comfort the sick, help the dying, and bring joy to children and adults from 3 to 103.
I can hardly believe how far I have come over the past eight years, and I can't give enough credit to that one special dog who remains at my side every step of the way. Those early cave dogs had nothing on Tuesday. He has proven himself over and over again to be a genius and the truest kind of friend. The change in me since Lu paired us could hardly have been any more dramatic. Instead of sitting inside a small apartment all day, an anxious prisoner of my own PTSD, I took to the road with Tuesday and never looked back. Not as occasional travelers. Not as two-week vacationers. Together, we became creatures who've traveled to many, many places but still have a long list of stops we are eager to get to. And though there are days and weeks that the road can feel like too much to handle—times I still struggle to cope with the lingering vestiges of my PTSD—we press ever onward, knowing we really can't afford to stop.
Given the darkness I was coming out of, who would have predicted how full our lives could be? Certainly not me. I could not have conceived any of it. That I would earn a master's degree from the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University. That my relationship with Tuesday would become a New York Times best seller (plus a pair of award-winning children's books) and a celebrated documentary film. That I would work with a U.S. senator to get service dogs some of the respect they deserve from the Department of Veterans Affairs. That Tuesday and I would appear together on The Late Show with David Letterman. Do you have any idea how many people watched that show? I don't know exactly. But I know it's up in the millions. Dave is well known as an avid dog person. His own beloved dogs included Spinee, a yellow Labrador retriever. One of his show's longest-running segments was "Stupid Pet Tricks." He couldn't wait to call Tuesday into his arms for a nationally televised hug. Being such a people dog, Tuesday happily obliged.
Who would have believed that we would receive thousands of cards, letters, and emails from people across the country and around the world, sharing their own inspiring stories and sometimes seeking our help? Most of all, for myself and anyone who knew me during those darkest of times, who would have believed that Tuesday and I would leave our isolated lives in New York City and begin traveling full time as road warriors for the causes we believe in most? From Shut-Ins to Open-Roaders, from Inward Looking to Outward Bound. Going from city to city and town to town. Meeting people everywhere—and lots of dogs too. Traveling to forty-nine of the fifty U.S. states. Get ready, Hawaii! It won't be long! I can hardly explain how big a change this was for us. Advocating for disabled veterans, service members, and many others in need. Educating adults and children about the many wonders of service dogs.
I've never sat down and calculated the thousands and thousands of miles we've traveled together, but I do know this much: The longest journey of all was the one inside my head.
I'm not cured. But thanks to Tuesday, I'm permanently on my way. I am a profoundly different person as a result. Wasn't I the guy who once had trouble leaving his own apartment? Wasn't I the person who hated interacting with other people, even in the simplest ways? Sure, I was—but not anymore. I'm half of "Luis and Tuesday" now. It didn't happen overnight. In some ways, it's still a work in progress. But day by day, I've become the man who goes places and does things and has come to see what a glorious adventure living can be.
Until Tuesday told the story of my grueling battle to get here. Tuesday's Promise reveals the amazing world that Tuesday and I discovered once we arrived, a place I could hardly have imagined even existed. And none of this would have happened were it not for a certain rambunctious and furry creature with two golden floppy ears and a constantly wagging tail!
- "Compelling and ultimately heartbreaking...Montalván's ability, with cowriter Henican, to present the ongoing personal and bureaucratic struggles suffered by so many will likely inspire readers to become more engaged with the veterans community. Tuesday's Promise and Montalván's death are reminders of how much America still owes those who have served our country so faithfully. This powerful story has now become simply, and tragically, unforgettable."—Booklist (starred review)
- "Tuesday's Promise is a honorable and worthy tribute to Luis Montalván and Tuesday, the service dog he loved and depended on after bravely serving his country in war. I've seen through my support for Companions for Heroes how a dog can help heal a broken life, serving as a companion with a love that is almost indescribable. Tuesday's Promise captures that relationship better than any book written to date."—Dana Perino, former White House Press Secretary and co-host of Fox News' The Five
- "War affects warriors in a thousand different ways. As Luis discovered so vividly, the battle back home can be the toughest one. With loyal Tuesday at his side, Luis teaches his fellow warriors the true meaning of friendship, support, struggle and love. We all need special allies, human and canine. You can't help but love this pair. American veterans owe them both a huge debt of gratitude."—Rorke Denver, formertrainer commander, U.S. Navy SEALs, New York Times bestselling author of DamnFew and Worth Dying For
- "For those of us who have witnessed the unbiased cold hand of death upon friend, civilian and foe; these ghosts of war follow us home. Every now and then you find someone who understands. Luis and Tuesday stood together fighting against this enemy. Take a moment to understand this plague called PTSD and read Tuesday's Promise. It is a powerful book; the truths that Luis writes so eloquently about will inspire overwhelming pride and profound sadness and hopefully for a moment, allow you to see these apparitions, these ghosts of war."—Lt. Jason Redman, retired USNavy, author of The Trident andFounder of SOF Spoken
- "Luis Montalván brilliantly captures the experience of warriors returning home. This book was an honor and privilege for me to read! I am humbled by the service of these two selfless warriors."—Richard R. Peters, retired USNavy SEAL, author of Man of War
PRAISE FOR UNTIL TUESDAY
"This story of an incredible service dog is both touching and warm. Some of the struggles are painful to read, because they are so real, but that only makes the triumphs more uplifting. In the course of these pages, Tuesday truly becomes a hero, as does Luis Montalván. This book feels like more than a joy; it feels necessary."—Vicki Myron, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Dewey
- "This is a profoundly honest book filled with vital lessons about loss, friendship, war and the loving bonds that can save us in our lowest moments. We are all lucky that Capt. Montalván and his dog Tuesday found each other, for in their story we see the possibilities in our own lives."—Jeffrey Zaslow, coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestselling The Last Lecture
- "Wow, what a book! I think I was crying on page 3. The collision of man and dog, and the unbreakable bond they form, made my heart leap. Everyone should read this book to better understand not only the ravages of war, but the amazing capacity of the human spirit to rebound. I dare anyone to read this book and not believe in the power of love to heal."—Lee Woodruff, author of In an Instant (with Bob Woodruff) and Perfectly Imperfect
- "Luis and Tuesday are two true American heroes. This powerful story is a testament to the courage of veterans both on and off the battlefield. Luis is a critical voice for our community, reminding every single veteran that they are not alone."—Paul Rieckhoff, Executive Director and Founder, Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America (IAVA) and author of Chasing Ghosts
- "Until Tuesday explores the unique bond that can occur between dogs and people that ennobles both. This book is a moving tribute to the courage and perseverance of a man as well as the love and the devotion of a remarkable and unforgettable dog."—Larry Levin, New York Times bestselling author of Oogy: The Dog Only a Family Could Love
- "A clarion call to all who profess to care about our veterans and an intense reminder of just how high a price they have already paid, Montalván's mixture of memoir, military history, and pet story results in an urgently important tale."—Booklist
- "A deeply moving story of service, sacrifice, and restoration. Years from now when critics assemble the canon of Iraq War literature, look for Until Tuesday to make everyone's short list."—Andrew J. Bacevich, author of Washington Rules: America's Path to Permanent War
- On Sale
- May 9, 2017
- Page Count
- 304 pages
- Hachette Books