Editors Note: This article was written by Jerry Tittle who writes:
(I wrote this piece nine years ago when I learned my best friend Ron Barker was dealing with personal tragedy: his son, Cole, had died in Colorado. It was also personally traumatic for me, and there were things I felt compelled to write because of it. It was easier for me to speak on paper at the time than to look Ron in the eye and try to say it. I knew he would know my heart, and he did; he still knows it today.)
Red Dog knows a thing or two about death. He knows how it feels when it comes calling for someone he loves dearly. It has happened three times already, for sure, and Red has even cheated it more than once himself. He will be 18 right away, or 126 in dog lingo, but Red doesn't see that as a limitation in itself. However, the labored, slower gait, the spread of gray whiskers around his nose and mouth, and the shortness of breath beg to differ. He's not what he used to be,
A red and blue Heeler mix, Red Dog spends his time now at Ron and Sue Barker's ranch west of Mount Vernon, a sprawling spread with a ranch house and a bunk house nestled far up the hill in the trees overlooking Highway 67.
Ron Barker has been my best friend since 1950, and we share countless memories from play days around the old Franklin County Jail when my dad, Junior Tittle, was sheriff. Consequently, Red Dog is a bona fide "tale from the jail."
I first met Red in 2009, just after the passing of Jack Barker, Ron's brother. Jack's death was untimely, much premature, to say the least. He was a young man, good-looking, only 56. Nevertheless, death had already claimed his daddy, Fred; his mother, Dorothy; his sister, Nancy, would die in 2013; and Ron had already undergone one life-saving surgery. In any event, Jack and Red Dog had been sidekicks for some time, partners who shared a house on a piece of Barker property out near a gravel road we all called "dirty 40." They were inseparable-where you saw one, you saw the other.
Harvey Funeral Home filled up quickly for a visitation and viewing the night before Jack's funeral. Ron and his son, Cole, had hand-crafted a beautiful, heavy pine coffin for Jack's body and adorned it with some of his favorite things: a pair of cowboy boots, a weathered Stetson hat, and a hand-stitched western blanket.
A low-tone conversational buzz hummed through the crowd with comments about "how natural Jack looked" and "didn't he look like he was just asleep in that box." In an instant, though, a hush fell over the room, and the crowd parted to clear the center aisle. Red Dog was making his way to the front, and it was like the room felt the need to show compassion and respect. Red circled the coffin two or three times and then lay down quietly underneath, resting his head against the stand supporting Jack's body. Death had come calling, and Red Dog grieved like the rest of us.
For a time after that, Red Dog stayed with one of Jack's old buddies before making his way to Dr. Reed's place. After all, the Mount Vernon veterinarian was a favorite of Red's, and the feeling was mutual. In fact, Red lived there until the popular local vet died, again forcing Red into the grief cycle. He was loyal to a fault, but surely he must have thought, "Man, how many times do I have to do this?"
Red didn't know it, but the ultimate hook-up was in the works. Cole insisted Red Dog come with him to Colorado. Jack, Cole, and Red were close, kindred spirits to the core, hunting and fishing and just loving the woods.
Following Mount Vernon High School (MVHS) and a degree from Baylor University, Cole Barker became, by his own definition, a real mountain man, settling up near the Continental Divide. He hired on with a drilling company and even formed his own excavation business on the side. Barry Allen, a long-time gas and oil professional, as well as a good friend and MVHS classmate of mine and Ron's, said, "It takes a crew of powerful men to set up a rig and send a bit thousands of feet down into the rock mountain core. Cole Barker was a powerful name for a powerful man."
However, as bad luck would have it, Red Dog couldn't handle the high, thin mountain air, and a persistent respiratory condition forced him back to Texas and Ron and Sue's ranch. He was forced to take high-dollar medication, which Cole paid for and Ron administered. Red would have to settle for Cole's frequent visits back to Texas. They had a bond, and he would take what he could get.
Meanwhile, Cole and his new bride, Allison, a jewelry maker from Seattle, moved into an old mining cabin they'd restored together on a dead-end mountain road. Cole had even purchased online a train caboose and had it and a strip of track hauled in and placed behind the cabin, his "guest house," he called it. They remodeled it together, complete with plumbing, paneling, and all the trimmings. There was probably no one else like this couple in the world, and in his spare time, Cole skied. He skied a lot, and he was good; he'd been on skis since he was seven.
Then came the unthinkable: Cole Barker skied into a tree while flying down what appeared to be a routine mountain run one bright morning a couple of months ago, and died. He was 35. Following Cole's wish to be cremated, Ron knew what he must do. Although maybe not with Sue's blessing, Ron built a small canon, of sorts, hauled it to Colorado, and blew Cole's ashes high into the jet stream over the Continental Divide. A select handful of five or six witnessed the actual event, while 100 or so had come and gone nearby earlier in the day.
The shot echoed off the mountains for minutes, it seemed, and then Cole Barker disappeared into maybe the most clear, crisp, beautiful air in the world. The mountain man was gone, but he would never be forgotten.
I'm betting Red Dog flinched in Texas when that canon fired; there's something extra-sensory about those bonds, and Red knows a thing or two about death. Who knows, Cole may drop by occasionally to touch Red on the nose or scratch his ear, before leaving again on the jet stream for a while.
Red Dog - a powerful name; Cole Barker - a powerful man!
