Mornings With Barney

by Dick Wolfsie

  I felt very good about my job that day. Any time I had the opportunity to use my unique role to help others was a plus. Sure, I had a huge ego; I loved the attention and the notoriety, but it was also important to me that I not squander that time each morning. Few people in my business had the freedom to say and do anything they wanted for ten minutes every morning in front of tens of thousands of people. Sometimes the segment was a riot. But it was always a responsibility—to either entertain or to educate. Or the perfect form: do both at once.

  Mike Hunt sent me a photo a few weeks later that he had taken during the show. And this is one of the photos I treasure most. This is what Barney was all about. Take a look at it. And then you’ll understand, as I did, Barney’s mission in life.

  By the way, Mike and Emily wrote a book called Emily’s Walk, the story of how one courageous little girl faced incredible challenges early in her life. Book signings always were a success, but the day that she and Barney teamed up together broke all sales records. That was a combo that was hard to beat.

  Travels with Barney

  Barney was always next to me, eyes on me like a laser. During book signings at malls, he loved the attention from fans but even a short trip to the men’s room resulted in a touch of separation anxiety (for both of us).

  He was visibly agitated when I was not in plain sight, straining his neck to see where I went. I usually offered a free book to a customer if he or she would watch Barney while I went to the bathroom. But this had some serious drawbacks. On several occasions he got off the leash he was tethered to and scampered down the mall, his legs in a whirl as he tried to negotiate the slippery vinyl floor at each turn.

  “He went that-a-way,” my supposed dog watcher would say as I returned to my table. I would bolt down the mall, occasionally catching sight of him, but he would disappear around a corner. No problem: I just had to look for him in 200 stores. I needed an excuse to go into Victoria’s Secret anyway.

  I’d walk into each shop and ask the clerk if he had seen a male, tri-colored beagle. I realized how stupid it was to offer a description. There were not a great many stray dogs in the mall on any given day. Eventually I would find him. He was never surprised to see me. Remember, that was part of the game.

  Because Barney was so unhappy alone I seldom left home without him, making us potential stars for the next American Express commercial.

  Mary Ellen had encouraged—no, demanded—my constant stewardship of Barney over the years because of his destructive nature. “If you go, he goes.” This had a much less ominous sound than her dictum years earlier, “If he stays, I go.” We had made some progress.

  When my second book, Dick Wolfsie’s New Book: Longer, Funnier, Cheaper, was published, the concept was that people would come into the bookstore and say, “Do you have Dick Wolfsie’s New Book?” That was funny until my third book came out. Now the title made no sense at all and just confused the buyers and the sellers. Other than all that, it was a great idea.

  Barney’s picture was on both covers—mine, too, but Barney had been absolutely no help with those books. That was the extent of Barney’s involvement in the whole process . . . just waiting for a walk and dinner while I sat all day at the computer trying to think of witty things. They were just Andy Rooney/Dave Barry kinds of musings about everyday life. It was easy. If something funny occurred to me, I wrote it down. But as Mark Twain said, “It’s not the writing that’s hard, it’s the occurring.”

  It was time for something different. When a Connecticut publisher was looking for authors around the country to compile books of roadside oddities and unique people in each of the fifty states, she contacted me about Indiana. Sadly, she did not have the strength to give Barney a good belly rub, but her smile lit up the room, enough of a treat for both of us.

  I was flattered by her interest, but I was leaning against accepting the offer for the following reason: It was a whole lot of work. It meant traveling to all ninety-two counties to search for these oddities. I did know central Indiana, but that was only 20 percent of the state. I hadn’t the slightest idea about the other seventy or so counties. It was another world. Much of it was more rural, for one, and there were over 2,000 cities on the map, many with just a few hundred people.

  Where would I begin? There was no way I could do this.

  But I knew I couldn’t use lack of time as an excuse because I had an incredibly flexible schedule. I was on TV for two hours each weekday morning, but booking the segments and pre-interviewing guests could be spread out over a week or done in one full marathon afternoon. No, I needed a better pretext to avoid this new challenge.

  How about this: I cannot follow directions, a talent I assumed was a prerequisite to traveling the state in search of material for the book. Compass and map—I can make a very funny limerick using those two words, but I couldn’t find my way out of a Plymouth minivan. On a map, north is up, south is down. I can’t make this concept work for me in a three-dimensional world. I might have been the right person to write this travelogue but I was the worst one to go out and research it. That’s what I was going to tell the editor when she called back for my decision.

  My wife had a different view. Mary Ellen felt that if I declined this offer and someone else wrote the book, it would haunt me that I had turned it down. “You’ll do nothing but whine about what a poor job this person did. You’ll complain he can’t write, that he wasn’t funny and how he missed all the good stuff.” Boy, she nailed it. That’s exactly the kind of annoying thing I was apt to do.

  As for my concern about directions, Mary Ellen made a good point. “Dick, so what if you get lost? You don’t know where you’re going anyway, so get in the car and drive. That’s how you’ll find neat stuff. Oh, and take the dog with you.”

  That part appealed to me. It reminded me of the book Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck’s chronicle of his crosscountry journey with his French poodle, Charley.

  There was clearly an effort here to get us out of the house on weekends, but Mary Ellen’s logic was impeccable. Before I made my final decision, I looked at the copy of Texas Curiosities that the editor had originally sent me. I decided to thumb through the book and stop at a random page. If what I read on that page reflected the kind of wacky stuff I wanted to write about, that would seal the deal. Whenever I was on the fence about something I always looked for some kind of sign for the right thing to do. I even did it for this book, as you’ll see later.

  I flipped to page 78 and there it was: A story about a Jernigan’s Taxidermy shop in Waco, Texas. Jeremy Jernigan specializes in stuffing the rear ends of the animals. His store window apparently is filled with animal butts. Even Barney could have found this curiosity. With his nose in the air. Enough read. I decided to do it.

  Sadly, there was no taxidermist of that sort in Indiana, so while I never found someone who did that kind of stuffing, I did find some neat stuff. For over a year, Barney and I traveled Indiana—six thousand miles, more than three hundred cities (visiting two thousand was just not possible). Virtually every weekend we’d head out either Friday afternoon or Saturday morning and spend the entire day (and often overnight) nosing our way around small towns, pumping locals for information about their area to find an anomaly that would lend itself to a chapter in the book.

  I talked with local news editors and county historians hoping they would point me in the right direction. I always hoped they literally pointed, because north, south, east, and west were a mystery to me.

  The historians were fixated on what had happened hundreds of years ago, but no one wants to pack the three kids in the Ford pickup to visit a historical marker in the middle of nowhere or in the middle of downtown, for that matter. I think it’s cool that James Buchanan once fell off his horse on this street in downtown New Palestine, but it’s not something you’d want to visit. Or maybe it was Millard Fillmore. See, who cares?

  The visitor and convention bureaus were of little help because their inclination was to push pla
ces that they were promoting on their own Web sites and through brochures. Repeating what was already in the PR pipeline was a big waste of time and not what the publisher was looking for.

  Newspaper editors were sometimes grumpy and often too busy, which meant they were damn good editors, just no help to me. Incredibly, even men and women who had lived and worked in these tiny towns their whole lives were at a loss to come up with something offbeat in the area. When I ventured to these towns, I’d inquire about local oddities at a gas station, a café, or a barbershop. I often got this kind of response: “Nothing special here, young man. Lived here all my life. Can’t think of a thing.”

  I kept asking the question, mostly because I liked being called “young man.” Truth was that all these folks were aware of the local oddball stuff, but they couldn’t think of it. Why? Because they saw these things every day. The oddities were part of the daily wallpaper. In a coffee shop in Bryant, Indiana, the server told me that there wasn’t much to see in town. But twenty minutes later, just a quarter mile from the shop, I drove past a barn adorned with hundreds of monkey wrenches that had been nailed to the side of the building. I returned to the café on the way out of town. “Oh, I forgot about that,” said the embarrassed waitress, who had drawn a blank when I’d posed the original question an hour earlier.

  Writing the book required a lot of poking around. On many occasions my search required engaging a total stranger in an interview. Outside central Indiana, no one knew my face or had heard of my dog. But Barney played a role similar to the one he played in Indy. He greased relationships and helped me to gain the trust of perfect strangers, whom I was asking to share their story. In the rural Midwest most people have gun racks, not ski racks, so I was glad have a beagle next to me. Not for protection, for a connection.

  In Knox, Indiana, northwest of Indianapolis, the first six people I spoke with at a gas station, all from the immediate neighborhood, failed to remember that one of their neighbors had giant rosary beads encircling her house. They were multicolored bowling balls, connected by a rope. In fact, everyone in Knox knew about this oddity, but again, unless I specifically mentioned it, the locals were at a loss to think of anything in town that would make it into my book.

  When I found the address, I whipped out my camera and starting snapping photos. I would normally have asked permission, but it appeared no one was home. Suddenly, an elderly woman emerged from the house. At first she appeared distressed at my picture taking, although you would think I wasn’t the first person to see this as a Kodak moment. “Can I help you?” she asked cautiously. I explained I was writing a book about unique things in Indiana. “Oh, do you think I’ll get in the book?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She was genuinely flattered but reluctant to grant permission, concerned I might mock her house. Barney had stuck his head out the window and was howling for some attention. “Is that your dog?”

  “Yes, his name is Barney.”

  “I had beagles when I was growing up. Why don’t you two come in the house and I’ll tell you the whole story of my rosary.”

  Barney and I had a lovely visit, sharing beagle stories with the owner of the house, Linda Stage. She also provided a fascinating history of her unique rosary beads, leaving little to spare, so to speak. Like most Hoosiers, the inclination was to be open and friendly, but it sometimes required a little evidence on my part that I was to be trusted.

  We left an hour later with story in hand. That chapter of the book always created the most interest. Barney helped make that happen.

  When the book came out, one reviewer noted, “Dick has fun with people, but he doesn’t make fun of them.” I appreciated the distinction, but sometimes I did have to gnaw on my lip. I did seem to meet some unique personalities.

  By the way, Barney always enjoyed the ride through rural Indiana, his head out the window, nose twitching. He was a real trouper. And sometimes there were state troopers following our car, but I never got a speeding ticket in all the years I drove through Indiana if Barney was with me. And I was stopped more than a few times. Without Barney, I’d have had a few citations. Yeah, the dog even melted the hearts of Indiana’s finest.

  Barney often looked back over his shoulder as we passed fields of cows and sheep. I’m sure Barney would have liked to have made a few unscheduled stops, but there were just too many curiosities to sniff out. We were on a deadline.

  Walk a Mile in My Paws

  Barney and I qualified for senior citizenship about the same time. I was the oldest on-air reporter at WISH-TV. I hadn’t been there the longest, but I was the longest in the tooth. Now I was dying the hair that had been successfully transplanted from one part of my head to another years earlier. At fifty-three years old, I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about segments that involved a bodily commitment. I had had enough of roller skating, acrobatic plane rides, and bear wrestling. In the past, I had jumped at every opportunity to be physically involved in the segment. Viewers always loved those parts of the show. But now there were parts of me that needed a rest. One thing that remained a constant was my daily walk with Barney. We both would head out the door, although sometimes I thought the pooch would rather have curled up on the air conditioner vent and slept. I often felt the same way.

  We usually started out at a good pace. I’d lumber for about five minutes, at which point both my heart and the dog’s reached peak cardiac rate. Both of us were about 15 percent over our optimum body weight, so it wasn’t long before the two us were tripping over our tongues.

  The once-three-mile jaunt became barely a mile. In the summer, I’d bring a spray bottle when it was over 75 degrees, and every tenth of a mile or so we’d sit on a rock and refresh ourselves. In the winter, we’d both bundle up in sweaters before we left the house, but within an hour all six of our feet were freezing and needed a good rub.

  Both Barney and I had arthritis as we aged. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. When Barney was younger, he would get the scent of a rabbit and take off into the woods. Even then, I couldn’t keep up with a beagle pup. Once Barney reached about eleven, he’d still eye the squirrels and rabbits, but I think even he realized that pursuit would be in vain. He didn’t make an effort anymore. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of an attractive young woman in the park. Barney and I would look at each other knowingly. Who were we kidding?

  We still enjoyed the trees and wildlife, but we both developed allergies in late summer, so we’d trudge down the trail sneezing and wheezing. In the winter, we walked gingerly along the icy streets, afraid we might slip and twist one our six ankles or whatever they’re called on a dog.

  On a typical walk, Barney relieved himself fifteen or twenty times. Even if I were inclined to do likewise, propriety (and having a recognizable face) prevented me from following suit, but I wouldn’t have minded a few pit stops myself.

  As our walk came to an end, we’d both be panting, looking forward to the ride home when we could both stick our heads out the window and let the wind run through our thinning and graying hairs. Once we arrived at the house, Barney headed right for his bowl of cold water. I’d snap open a frosty beer and before long we were both napping on the sofa. That’s usually when my wife got home from work and thought it funny to point out that the dog and I snored in perfect harmony.

  I never put Barney on a leash when we walked in the woods. Over the years, this had proven to be a mistake. A rabbit or squirrel would send him scampering and the result was that I often had to depend on pure luck that he would find his way back to me. He usually did, but on more than a few occasions, I would search for more than an hour, calling him at the top of my voice to no avail. When I finally returned home without him, there was usually a phone call on my answering machine from somebody who had found him sniffing about in his garage. In later years, he stuck closer to me. As I said, we had both lost a little wanderlust.

  I estimated once that the two of us walked about 4,000 miles together. More than anything else, more ev
en than our time on TV, I miss those walks. There were no fans to please, no news directors to satisfy, no time cues to hit, no makeup to put on.

  I’m not a tree hugger or a nature nut. I’m just a city boy who moved west from New York and discovered that a half hour in the woods with your best friend is even sweeter than a half-sour pickle.

  Grow Old Along with Me

  The earliest sign of Barney’s aging was the gradual loss of his hearing. Those big droopy ears could once detect a Pringle hitting the kitchen floor at thirty paces. Barney could hear me crack a dog biscuit three rooms away. He knew the doorbell was going to ring seconds before it chimed—he heard the footsteps. When Barney was deep in the woods behind our house, I’d rattle a box of Milk-Bones and he would be at the back door in seconds. But his personal radar system was going on the fritz. Those big ears were becoming just so much window dressing.

  Maybe I should have identified this problem earlier. Commands like “Come here!” “Sit!” “Bad dog!” “Stop eating trash!” went unheeded. But since he’d never paid any attention to those commands when he had perfect hearing, I didn’t realize what was happening.

  Barney and I did about 2,500 shows together. Mornings went like this: I’d switch off the alarm, jump in the shower, and get dressed. Waiting for me at the door half an hour later was Barney, ready for a new adventure. But one day, he wasn’t at the door; he was still curled up in my bed, snoring away. He hadn’t heard the alarm, or the shower, or the flushing toilet. He was shaking and vibrating in the middle of some doggy fantasy dream. I hated to wake him up. But we had to go to work.

  For years, when the family went out for the day, Barney would spend his afternoon on our bed, his head propped against my pillow, body stretched out like a lazy feline. When we’d return, he’d hear the car pull into the driveway and dash downstairs to greet us at the door.