by Dick Wolfsie
Nevertheless, Barney was now literally living on the edge. He was looking over the platform. What was he thinking? I didn’t want to know.
I scrambled up the staircase to the entrance of the diving platform. Barney turned his head back over his shoulder with a perplexed look on his face, if that’s possible with a dog. He certainly had no intention of jumping. Or did he? And were we still on live TV? Would he come to me when I called him? Well, that hadn’t happened since . . . well, ever. I rummaged through my pants. I often carried bits of human food in my pocket to lure him back to me in situations like this—not that there had ever been a situation like this.
Sure enough, tiny slices of pepperoni in the fold of my front pocket. As I waved them at him, the spicy odor wafted to his nose. Barney carefully—very carefully—turned and walked back toward me.
If your doctor ever tells you that pepperoni is not good for your health, you may repeat this story. It prevented my heart attack.
I always had mixed feelings about whether to share on TV the fact that Barney had gone missing, especially if it occurred while we were on the air. What would the viewers think? Barney didn’t love me? I wasn’t careful enough watching him? In some cases, his disappearance and his mischief led to some great television. When left to meander inside a building, Barney could, despite his girth, manage to squeeze his way through any aperture. If he couldn’t find an open door, Barney would find an unsuspecting accomplice, roll his big brown eyes, and convince someone that he required some assistance in vacating the premises.
Yes, Barney had a great many famous escapes, but he also had some dramatic rescues. At least once a week, Barney fans still come up to me and boast that they once found Barney at a Burger King, or they rescued Barney from a prickly bush, or they found Barney in their garage. That was part of the allure. So many felt a connection to him. He wasn’t just a name on a page or even a dog on TV. There were scores of people who could honestly say: “If it weren’t for me, Barney might have been lost forever.”
He was almost lost forever in Greenwood, Indiana, during a show. My major mistake that morning? I asked a sixteen-year-old boy who was there with his fifteen-year-old girl-friend to watch Barney while I did my segment. That’s right: I requested that teenagers take some responsibility, to keep their paws off each other for two hours and instead watch four canine paws. I guess I didn’t learn anything teaching high school for nine years.
After the first segment, I 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 even brought their Irish wolfhound to meet Barney. We walked in, and I said (and this may sound a little familiar) . . .
“Is there any human food, in the garbage or
otherwise, that this dog could reach considering he can open a refrigerator door with his nose, and climb up on a chair to get to a table. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING? NOTHING IS SAFE. Nothing.”
“I don’t think so,” said the Irish lady. Then she glanced at her twelve-year-old daughter, who gave a shrug, which was probably a clue I should have done my own investigation.
The show went well, although I was distracted because I was trying to keep a careful eye on the expensive Irish cashmere scarves that were displayed at beagle level. The scarves did not appear to be digestible, but that distinction could never be confirmed until Barney had eaten something.
I did think it odd that Barney was not lurking during the segment. I figured it was because the Irish wolfhound, although a gentle giant the size of a pony, had pretty much scared the heck out of him, and Barney had gone somewhere to hide.
As the segment ended, the Irish lady’s daughter motioned to her mother.
“Mom,” she whispered, “where are those four sticks of butter for the cookies we’re going to bake?”
I turned red. Green would have been more appropriate for St. Patrick’s Day.
“You told me there was no food out!” I barked.
“Well,” said the store owner, a touch indignant, “I didn’t think he’d eat four sticks of butter.”
“Oh, I see. You thought he was on a low-fat diet?”
I always tried to avoid even the hint of exasperation with guests, but incidents like this really tested my patience. Jeez, a pound of butter. It couldn’t have been a worse food choice. At least Barney wasn’t lactose intolerant.
I herded Barney into the car. We had a speaking engagement at 10 that morning in Columbus, Indiana, about ninety minutes away. I’m obviously no expert on animal digestion, but I do have a suggestion: don’t travel in a car for almost two hours with a dog that has just eaten four sticks of butter. Enough said.
A month later we paid a visit to an office complex where I was to interview the CEO of a new company. The secretary greeted us at the door and gave Barney a hug, the only thing that ever deterred him temporarily from his customary routine of wall-to-wall inspection.
That’s when I told her . . . well, I think you know what I told her.
“Oh, heavens no,” she said. “We never keep food around. That’s unsanitary.”
Ten minutes later, the boss, who had returned to his office for a brochure, informed his secretary, “Rita, I think Barney ate the cheese Danishes that were on my desk.”
Rita’s response was a classic. “Both of them?”
Yes, Rita. Both of them. Go figure. And he was supposed to be watching his figure. I turned so she wouldn’t see me grinning. Rat poison is not funny. Four sticks of butter, not funny. Two cheese Danishes? Very funny.
The dog’s obsession with food was hilarious on TV, humorous at the State Fair, and a hoot at the television station, but it didn’t go down well with Mary Ellen and Brett, who also never quite understood how nimble a hound can be when aromatically motivated. I sometimes thought that Barney’s periodic escapes from the house were the only respite we had from his gluttonous ways. For a while, he was someone else’s problem.
And so much of it was our fault. Leave the garage door open and every trash can was upturned; forget to close the pantry door and anything on the floor was fair game. (Actual game, by the way, was of no interest to him. He was scared of moving food.) We finally realized the only way to keep him from prying the refrigerator door open with his nose and using his head as a lever to complete the operation was to duct tape the door shut.
It would be hard to estimate how many potential dinners (raw food on the counter) and actual dinners (meals on the dining room table) Barney managed to negotiate into his belly. Nothing ticked off Mary Ellen and Brett more than this (to me, understandable) affinity for human food. I called it natural behavior. And ironically, it should have been easy to prevent. Push the food back farther on the counter. How hard could that be? And yet, we could never get it through our thick Homo sapiens skulls. Countless times even our take-out dinners never made it home. Once after putting a bucket of KFC in the backseat, I ran into the liquor store for some beer. Barney didn’t require a personal dinner invitation from the Colonel. That night we had mostly beer for dinner. Barney never read the owner’s manual about not eating chicken bones. And I never got the memo that dog owners need behavior modification more than dogs. They really should call it human obedience school.
And again, no amount of discipline was going to make a difference. Why? Because the next day on-air I would reward him for this very same atrocious behavior. Barney knew if he could deliver a laugh, he was earning his kibble.
And speaking of delivery, I discovered that Barney loved pizza the week Mary Ellen was on a long business trip. She said it was to earn a living but it was more likely to seek a beagle-free zone. I was left to care for my son even though I don’t think Mary Ellen fully trusted me alone with Brett, then ten years old, and the dog.
To make me feel more comfortable, Mary Ellen gave me a detailed list of do’s and don’ts. If I was unsure about anything, she told me, I was to consult the list. Everything—yes, everything—was in alphabetical order. Some examples:
B: Bedtime (You both need to do this every night. Do not skip a night.)
D: Dishes (Wash after each meal in dishwasher. Do not mix dishes and underwear in same load.)
M: Meals (To be eaten while seated—not in the car, and not standing at the sink. Space them out over the day.)
V: Vacuum Cleaner (About three feet tall, with a long bag attached to it and a hose coming out the side. I don’t expect you to use it, but I didn’t want it to scare you if you opened the closet by mistake.)
X: Xylophone (It’s the only word I know with the letter X. You may play one while I am gone.)
She also made it quite clear that she expected Brett and me to eat healthy meals. So that Friday night, I ordered an extra-large pizza from Noble Roman’s with toppings representing all the major food groups. The pizza was big enough for the next three dinners and a couple of breakfasts. The phone rang as Brett and I sat at the kitchen table.
“It’s probably Mom,” I said. “I’m going upstairs to take the call. Watch the pizza.”
It would be about ten minutes before I first realized what part of “I’m going upstairs to take the call. Watch the pizza,” Brett paid no attention to. At first I thought he’d headed back to his homework, but I had confused him with the boy next door. No, he apparently still had four hours left on his Nintendo game.
When I returned to the kitchen, there was no pizza left. And no box. And I knew that Brett seldom ate the box, so it must have been the canine trash compactor.
The culprit was hiding behind the couch, which was apparently tough for him because before he ate the pizza he weighed forty pounds and now he was tipping the scales at forty-five pounds. He was stuck, wedged between the sofa and table. He was gasping. Hopefully, I thought, it was an errant piece of mozzarella that would work its way down and nothing to worry about, but on more careful analysis I decided it was best to panic.
I got Barney from behind the couch and tried to get him to walk, but Barney’s tummy was so distended that it scraped along the ground like a basset hound’s ears. His stomach was making strange gurgling sounds as though it was about to erupt like a volcano.
Now I figured I had to get all that pizza out of him. I wasn’t sure why this was a good idea, but it gave me a sense I was doing something. I had read about it in some pet firstaid book, but I had confused in my mind the appropriate over-the-counter drug that would accomplish this. I had a sneaking feeling that the difference between hydrogen peroxide, sodium bicarbonate, and hydrogen chloride was pretty significant. It was one of the three, but I couldn’t be sure. But I did remember it was two teaspoons. Of what, I didn’t know.
I ran to the phone and called Barney’s vet, Dr. McCune, who answered the phone from a dead sleep at his home. Charl
ie Bob, as his friends called him, was a great guy with forty years’ experience. But could he handle an emergency of this breadth and magnitude?
“Doc, it’s Dick Wolfsie.”
“What’s the matter, Dick? It’s awfully late.”
“Barney just ate an extra-large pepperoni pizza. What should I give him?”
There was pause. I’m sure that he too, at this hour, was trying to remember the difference between hydrogen peroxide, sodium bicarbonate, and hydrogen chloride.
“Doc,” I repeated, “what should I give him?”
“A Budweiser?”
Then he hung up the phone. All great comedy lines require the proper denouement. The click of the phone beautifully framed the irony of the situation, highlighting my hopelessness, my frustration, and my sense of futility.
Clearly this was not the emergency I thought it was. As Dr. McCune would later explain, the treatment for Barney was the same as for humans: do nothing and let the patient vomit. For two hours.
I have to admit. It worked like a charm.
Usually after an experience like this I would promise myself that the next time Barney ingested something I considered inappropriate, I would just kick back and chill. The dog had ingested so many things, his stomach had clearly made the necessary accommodations. But two weeks later, another crisis.
It was Friday night—actually very early on Saturday morning. “What’s that noise downstairs?” asked Mary Ellen. I loved questions like that. Either it was a burglar or it was nothing. And either way, I had no intention of going downstairs. I sat up in bed and it was clear that it was Barney snooping around in the kitchen, grazing for food. Barney had sometimes made his way down the steps in the middle of the night to see if he could rustle up a snack, so I figured he was pawing at the pantry door where his treats were kept.
I stumbled down to the kitchen and there was Barney chewing on what appeared to be a piece of aluminum foil. No, it was an ant trap that the beagle had negotiated from beneath the fridge with his paw! The blue “poison” was dripping from his mouth.