Sherman by Damien Barrett He left us two weeks after his eleventh birthday. When he didn't eat that evening, I knew something was wrong. And he didn't bark when Kim's car rolled into the driveway. I found him on his favorite blanket in his house. My heart cracked when I saw his dry nose and matted fur. Sherman, as strong as a tank, had gone. "Oh, Dad! Look at this one! Can we get him!" squealed Kimmy furiously hugging the adorable golden retriever puppy. She bounced over clutching the puppy to her, those deep brown eyes pleading and an irresistable grin spread on her face. One of the puppy's ears flopped over and rested gently against Kimmy's arm. "Yes, Kimmy. It's your birthday--your choice. Remember our deal...you have to help take care of him--feeding, walking..." "Yes, Daddy, I know," Kimmy said impatiently having heard this at least a billion times on the way to the mall. On the way home, Kimmy fell asleep in the back seat exactly ten minutes after Sherman, the puppy nestled snugly in her arms, his oversized ears moving up and down with the rhythms of their breathing. Kimmy's dad glanced in the rear-view mirror and smiled. Kim pulled into the cracked driveway and flashed a look at the house. It was older--everything was older. The shutters needed painting. The curtains in the front window were different. She wondered when Mom had changed them. She wondered how bad Dad would look. Kimmy glanced over at Sherman's old doghouse next to the garage just as her car's engine turned over once more, and died. "Daddy! Look at him pull!" yelled Kimmy from the living room. Her new puppy had one end of a rope-pull and was tugging fiercely trying to get it loose of her grip. Kimmy giggled and pulled harder, hoping to herself that maybe her puppy would win...she wanted to see him win. The TV was on her Dad's favorite channel and some black and white footage of Sherman tanks tearing up jungle was playing silently in the background. "What should we call him?" asked Kimmy's Dad, glancing away from his TV program and lighting a cigarette. "I don't know. I don't want a normal name for him. He's a special dog and he needs a special name," said Kimmy matter-of-factly. She looked hopefully to her Dad. "How about Sherman?" he suggested. "Sherman? That's a good name." And so it was.   Kim's eyes winced as she saw her Dad lying weakly in the hospital bed. Tubes ran from his nostrils to an oxygen tank glazing bright orange against the pale green walls of the room. The TV set was dark and dead-looking high up in the corner; a spiderweb floated from the set to a shadow. She looked at the cards and the flowers and the sheets and the curtains, anywhere except at her Dad, not wanting to face the truth of the tubes and ventilator. A picture of Sherman of days gone sat on the bedstand, his dark eyes looking out, looking over Kim's Dad. "Where's Kimmy?!" said her mother, looking around, knowing. She jumped up, spilling kool-aid on the picnic blanket. Sherman barked from a distance. Kimmy's mother heard something in his bark and broke into a sprint towards the river, her long brown hair streaming out from behind her like smoke in a wind tunnel. "Oh my God!" screamed Kimmy's mother, seeing why Sherman had barked. Sherman stood protectively over Kimmy who was lying prone on the ground, water dripping from his muddy fur onto Kimmy's face, each drop streaming slowly down her cheeks like the tears at a funeral. He barked again as he saw Kimmy's mother hurrying down the hill and pulled again on Kimmy's shirt dragging her a few more feet towards her speeding mother. Sherman looked up with his dark eyes and shivered as Kimmy's mother reached her daughter to help save her life. Kimmy's Dad lit a cigarette and sighed. Sherman had gotten into a mess again with a porcupine. His mouth was swollen with quills and he was drooling all over the front seat of the car. A soft whine came from Sherman as if to say he was sorry. It was going to cost a lot of money again for the vet. He sighed again, but resigned himself to the expense. After all, it was Sherman--who had saved his daughter's life. Kim's thoughts returned to her work back in Minneapolis. The Johnson account. She would have to try to straighten that mess out on the phone later tonight. It was a bad time for her to be away from the office, but family comes first. Isn't that what her mother always used to say to her. And her Mom's voice on the phone told her everything she needed to know and everything she had been dreading. Her father was dying...and something more. Kim closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing. The rhythmic sounds of the ventilator lulled her to sleep, visions of Sherman running in her head. Kim's eyes popped open when she heard her name. It was her Dad. He was awake and talking! She looked into her Dad's pale eyes. He wasn't awake but he was talking. Kim leaned down, her ear turned to hear her Dad. "No, Sherman...not mad...you." "Dad. Can you hear me? Dad, it's Kim. Dad, wake up. Sherman's not here. Sherman died this morning in his sleep." "Kimmy...Mother. Sherman...here...going...him." Her dad coughed and gurgled, the tubes taped to his skinny chest moving sharply with each breath. She listened. "Kimmy...Sherman...here...go...with...him." "I love you, Dad." "Love you. Sherman...golden puppy...strong...tank." A gust of wind blew through the window. In the distance, Kim could hear a dog barking and children yelling. The breeze rustled her hair and stole her father's last breath, carrying it to the far reaches, to the river and beyond. The picture of Sherman caught the wind and fell slowly to the floor resting face down just between Kim's feet, the words scrawled carefully but slowly like those of a child by her father glowing up at her: "Strong as a tank."