John L. Shepherd in the '60s, was one of Silicon Valley's first programmers, then worked his way through a variety of companies, and became the president of his own. He retired in 1995, and recently took up writing. This was his first literary submission.
Tarnish entered my life in Eugene, Ore., in 1949. I was nine years old and my parents and I were living in an apartment complex on the outskirts of town. I played frequently in the surrounding fields and woods, and it was there that I was adopted by a bedraggled, homeless Golden Retriever. Initially, she would not let me touch her, but as the days passed and our bond grew, it became clear to me: she would be my dog.
My parents were against it. Our upstairs apartment was very small — there was no way we could have a dog. Finally, however, they succumbed to my pleas. I could have the dog, but she would have to stay in our woodbin, an outside walkin box where we stacked our wood. We discussed names, and my mother suggested Tarnish, which was the name of a lion cub in one of my favorite childhood stories (Tarnish, by Osa Johnson). I thought the name was perfect, and the Golden Retriever was Tarnish from that day forward.
Overjoyed, I prepared a bed in our woodbin and tried to persuade Tarnish to enter. She refused, and that evening, disappeared as she always did. My mother and I knew she slept in a neighbor’s woodbin at night, but I was sure I could get her to move into our woodbin the next day. Then my mother decided to get directly involved. After I had gone to bed, she took a flashlight and some leftover steak and went to our neighbor’s woodbin, where she was greeted with growls. She tossed the steak into the box and returned home.
Early the next morning, the neighborhood was awakened by Tarnish “greeting” the milkman as he attempted to make a delivery. She had left the neighbor’s woodbin in the earlymorning hours and was sleeping outside our door. After the milkman episode, it was decided that Tarnish could sleep in our apartment at night, but she would not be allowed on any of our furniture. That evening, she willingly came into the apartment and went to sleep on the blanket my mother had put in a corner. During the night, my mother got up to check on her and found her curled up on our best chair. My mother quietly went back to bed, and the next morning, moved the blanket from the floor onto the chair. It remained Tarnish’s chair for the rest of her life. Never once did she jump on any other piece of furniture.
We moved to El Paso, Texas, in 1952, and Tarnish’s chair became a fixture in my bedroom. During my high school and college years, we had many happy hunting and fishing expeditions in the Rio Grande Valley. Eventually, when it became difficult for Tarnish to jump into her chair, my father solved the problem by sawing off the chair legs, much to her delight.
After graduating from college in 1962, I was scheduled to leave El Paso in September to attend graduate school in Berkeley, Calif., and the departure day finally arrived. Tarnish was in her chair, and I lay on the floor to tell her goodbye for the last time. Cupping her head in my hands, I put my nose against hers, gazed into her eyes, told her no boy ever had a finer dog, gently stroked her and tearfully left for California.
Two months later, in the chair she had claimed as her own on her first night with us so many years before, Tarnish peacefully went to sleep for the last time. My father buried her under her favorite wisteria bush in the backyard.