Mornings With Barney Dick Wolfsie (best ebook reader for ubuntu .txt) 📖

asked my helpers where Barney had gone. “We haven’t seen him,” they said in exact unison, a good indication they were more into each other than scrupulous surveillance of the dog.

“You haven’t seen him? ” I bellowed. “Excuse me, but what exactly do you mean by ‘you haven’t seen him’? You were supposed to watch him, isn’t that right?”

“Well, we didn’t think he’d run away. The door was half-closed.”

“It was also half-open,” I pointed out, but this was a subtle distinction to be sure, and one that apparently had escaped this dynamic duo.

I panicked. This was always my first mode of response. Based on past experience, Barney could travel half a mile in about six minutes . . . unless he stopped to tip over a trash can or pick up some fast food on the way.

I ran up and down Meridian Street, the main thoroughfare in town, hollering his name. Cars whizzed by and a thunderstorm had rolled in. As always, my mind flashed forward to how I would deal with his disappearance on the air. Or what I would say if the unthinkable happened on that busy street where huge vehicles barreled by every second.

I called the local police chief and begged him to put out an APB. I wasn’t sure what an APB was, but I knew the police took it seriously. Maybe they would find Barney.

Incredibly, the chief agreed to do it—further proof, I guess, that the dog enjoyed a certain status in the community. If my wife had called and said I was missing, there would have been a two-day waiting period before valuable police resources were squandered on a guy who had just made a wrong turn. Or had been kidnapped. I kept checking back with the police, but there had been some kind of bank robbery across town and, understandably, a lost dog had ceased to be a priority.

An hour later, still no Barney. And no previous experience to suggest he would return on his own. I was about to head home. Suddenly, police sirens and swirling colored lights. The police car rounded the corner at about 70 mph and skidded to a halt next to me in the mall parking lot. Oh, no, I thought, he wasn’t hit by a car. Please, God, no.

I looked in the vehicle. Sitting next to the officer was Barney. Both his front and back paws were locked securely in handcuffs. Barney looked guilty, like most people do in the back of a police car. And he was guilty. Of being Barney.

“What happened, Officer?”

“Your dog has been arrested.”

“For what?”

“I was off duty and went to the supermarket to get some milk for my family. I look up and there’s your dog walking down aisle 4 with a barbecued chicken in his mouth. He’s in serious trouble, Mr. Wolfsie. Hoosiers don’t take chicken stealing lightly.”

Barney was remanded to me. The people at the supermarket were very nice and no theft charges were pressed.

Barney would have hated prison food. But he would have eaten it. The fact is, Barney would eat anything. Even though I was in the communication business, I wasn’t very successful in making people understand that nothing was safe from his jaws if it was in the same ZIP code. But nobody ever believed me. Part of the problem was that many of the guests had never lived with a beagle before, so my concerns seemed a bit overwrought. Part of it was just people’s almost instantaneous affection toward him. He was so cute, so lovable. How could he ever do anything wrong? Were these people not watching television? Had they not seen him in action?

The Food of the Gods . . . er . . . Dogs

Those who don’t have dogs may not fully appreciate how motivated animals can be when it comes to food. Their obsession is understandable. Dogs sleep, wait for you . . . and eat.

No matter where I took Barney, I tried to take extra care in limiting his exposure to anything edible. I was just as nervous when it came to things that were not edible, but you can’t hide a couch or a table leg. He was very willing to taste anything.

When I arrived at my location each morning, I walked in with Barney, his tail wagging in anticipation of a new adventure. Barney reminded me of an FBI agent who was not apt to exchange any pleasantries or conversation until every portion of the environment had been checked first for anything amiss, like a bomb or listening device.

Before Barney would officially greet the guest, he would scrutinize with his supersensitive nose every corner of every room; he would knock over every trash basket and nose up to every table his nose could reach, often balancing on his hind legs to get a better view of the landscape. Once that was accomplished, he’d reappear and interact with humans. That was his MO. It never varied.

I knew when I entered someone’s house or place of business that I had to prevent any potential trouble that could harm Barney. “Are there any animal traps in the place? Is there any rat poison he could get to?” That’s how I started. I took no chances.

Then it was time to protect the guest. “Is there any human food in the garbage or elsewhere that this dog could reach considering he can open a refrigerator door with his nose, and climb up on a chair to get on a table. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING? NOTHING IS SAFE. Nothing.” I usually calmed down at the end of the rants so people didn’t think I was a lunatic.

This approach never worked. People don’t have a very good perception of what accessible rations are stashed about their surroundings. On one St. Patrick’s Day, Barney and I paid a visit to a local retail shop that specialized in everything Irish. The woman and her daughter were big Barney fans and