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

I’m not going to tell you exactly when Barney died because after it happened I lied to dozens of people. You might be one of them. “Where’s Barney?” they yelled from their car the next day. “Home sleeping,” I shot back. I didn’t know what words to use. He wasn’t just my dog that was gone. He was their dog. In many ways, Barney belonged to everyone.

When I walked down the street with him, four out of five people would say hello to the beagle by name. Many followed with a lame joke about not knowing my name. Sometimes they weren’t kidding.

There was never another dog like him. He was a dog with many passions. People would joke that he looked like he hadn’t missed many meals. I think he missed one, back near the millennium. He was endlessly hungry, relentlessly in a search for food he could steal. He ate everything: pickles, carrots, hot dog buns, tomatoes. And sometimes, when extremely desperate, he would eat his own dog food.

When he saw people approach in a mall, he rolled over on his back for the ultimate belly rub. If you stopped rubbing him, he glared at you. “You’ve got some nerve,” he seemed to be saying. Everyone rubbed his belly—little old ladies, toddlers, Harley riders, even cat lovers.

As much as he loved me, he’d run away if he had the chance. Not run away from me, but on to a new adventure. He knew I’d find him. Last Thanksgiving he got through the invisible fence and found his way to a holiday dinner several miles away. He barked at the unfamiliar door. He knew strangers were a softer touch at the dinner table.

Barney and I did 3,000 TV shows together on Channel 8.

Barney knew television.

When a second-rate musician was playing his electric guitar on my show, Barney pulled the plug out of the wall with his teeth.

Barney knew music.

When the new Ruth’s Chris opened downtown, Barney went into the kitchen during the show and stole a T-bone from the counter.

Barney knew steak.

When Barney was asleep, his tail actually wagged.

Barney knew how to dream.

When I did a show with kids with Down syndrome, Barney jumped on the bed with all ten toddlers and snuggled with them.

Barney knew how to love.

When I did a show with the Carmel High School baseball team, he stole the ball (and the show) and took off with the whole squad in hot pursuit.

Barney knew comedy.

When people took pictures of Barney, I swear he looked right at the camera.

Barney knew publicity. Barney loved everyone. There were no strangers. I don’t think he had an unhappy moment in his life. His final day was filled with good food and adoring fans. That evening he passed peacefully, I am convinced.

Barney even knew how to die.

Over the years, I have given out over 5,000 photos of Barney, each inscribed by me with a silly facsimile of a paw print. If you have a picture of Barney with that paw print, please keep it in his memory. That would mean a lot to me.

And, I am sure, it would mean a lot to Barney.

A few days after that column appeared, an e-mail was sent to staff by the general manager—interestingly, one that I never got—instructing station employees not to respond to any inquiries from the press, or from viewers for that matter, about whether there would be a replacement for Barney. At first glance, I was perplexed by the memo when a colleague showed it to me because I had already responded during my interview with the local anchor, making it clear that the hunt would soon commence for a new sidekick. Worse, the local paper, the Indianapolis Star, had run a front-page feature about Barney’s demise and had quoted me as saying there would be another beagle at some point. Had I stuck my paw in my mouth?

So what did this edict mean? Well, if the station was smart, it would milk this situation for all it was worth. Newspaper ads, station promotion, Humane Society involvement, more Barney look-alike contests. This was going to be big: who will be the next Barney?

But that’s not what the e-mail was implying. That’s not what my gut had told me for two years, ever since 9/11. Instead, it appeared I was getting a subtle signal that the dog days of WISH-TV were over. That the morning news would no longer be identified by a renegade little beagle who had captured the hearts of every single viewer. The station felt it was time to move on.

I have no idea how many lives Barney touched. Every morning in front of their TV sets tens of thousands of people anticipated his appearance and were primed to smile and head out for work. When they arrived at the office or the factory, they delivered a Channel 8 commercial: “Did you see Daybreak today? You will not believe what Barney did.” “Did you see him chew that boxing glove?” “Can you believe he ate an entire plate of lasagna?”

Barney met the needs of each person he encountered. Everybody who ever hugged Barney, or scratched his belly or his ears, connected with him. This is not some romantic notion. I have heard the stories, seen the response. I watched the dog do his thing. And he did it so well that I really believe he was one of a kind.

Canines differ in temperament and mood, so clearly some dogs could not have played a TV role. But there are packs of pooches out there who are as loving and charming as Barney was. Could another dog, had he shown up on my steps, have been a Barney? Good question.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

In the weeks after Barney’s passing, I felt like half of Indiana was suddenly in the matchmaking business. Everybody had a friend who had an extra beagle, or had found a beagle, or knew somebody who knew somebody who’d just