I remember the first moment I ever met Red Barrows. It was also the first time I met their family dog, Franco. I'm not sure which one scared me more.

Harry Barrows was a friend of mine in high school. We both belonged to the chorus and eventually came the time for me to visit his house for the first time. We walked through the door and I immediately heard a bellowing bark of his dog Franco and the sound of it made me freeze in my tracks. I sounded like a cross between an angry bison and a very hungry bear.

And then I saw him.

Franco was a German Shepard but he looked as if he had some hidden Great Dane or horse DNA. And then one or two sniffs and a scratch behind the ears and he was my best friend. Every time I entered the Barrows home I was welcomed by Franco like one of the family.

Red was just like that.

As I made my first introductions to Franco and learned he wouldn't chew my head off I heard Red bark from his corner in the living room. Hunkered down in his chair in the corner he looked like a well dressed Gollum in a flannel shirt with his craggy face with pointed chin and beady eyes glaring in my direction.

And then I heard him.

"Close the goddamn door before the dog gets out!"

But, just like Franco, once we got to know each other he always welcomed me like a member of the family. In many ways he filled some fatherly position in my life after my father died. I had grown closer to Harry but I probably called on Red for assistance when my car broke down as often as I called Harry and he was always there for me. He always helped me but I can also see him shaking his head at me at the same time in that fatherly, "I love you but you're an idiot" kind of way. Every time I looked deep in those beady eyes I saw love and respect.

Last week Red passed away. Just a few years ago I stood with him and Harry in a cold November wind at Ma Barrow's grave. Just like then my financial situation kept me away from a funeral. Harry always says its nothing I have to worry about and I know that all the years of friendship make up for not being at some silly service. I also know that I will make it to that cemetery again and pay my respects to Red. But it will never be the same; it is as if I missed my own parent's funeral. I will, however, always have my memories of Red.

My favorite story is one about Red and my father. They were both police officers in neighboring jurisdictions. There was a city park which, to get to, you had to go through part of the neighboring town. They would meet together and patrol the park. This was in the days of the land cruiser car made of steel which weighed as much as a tank. One evening, Red and my dad found one of these tanks parked off the road. A convertible with its top down and various pieces of clothing draped over the fenders and trunk. The occupants were hunkered down deep in the back seat deeply involved with each other.

Red and my dad crept up on the car, one on either side coming up on the rear fenders. In silence, they removed the clothing from the car. One of them kneeled down and took out his large steel cased flashlights and pulled them back ready to swing. The other returned to the patrol car with his hand at the ready on the switch for the lights and siren

On the count of three they let loose; banging loudly on the fender as the siren wailed and emergency lights flashed. Red would howl telling the story, "The two heads popped up looking like they just had the shit scared out of them! They jumped around, half naked looking for their clothes! I never saw two people get dressed so quick in my life!"

I will miss Red. I don't believe in heaven but I do like the romantic image of Red and my dad laughing together again like they did that night.