Mornings With Barney (19 page)

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 even 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.

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.

No more.

I walked into the bedroom, where he was snoozing. I tried to roust him by bellowing his name.
Barney! Barney, we're home
.

No response.

I walked over and gently scratched his belly. His head snapped up like a jack-in-the-box. “
What in blazes was that?
” he seemed to be saying. “
You scared me half to death
.” Like most dogs, and especially beagles, Barney was used to hearing it or smelling it before he saw it or felt it. Now I felt bad when I disturbed him.
Maybe,
I thought,
I should call home and say we're on the way
. . . not that he would have heard the phone. Or knew how to answer it.

Our walks in the woods changed, as well. Beagles are hounds, bred to travel in packs when they hunt. Barney often walked ahead of me but would on occasion twist his head around to be sure I was nearby, still part of the hunting party. But such confirmation was rare because he could hear my footsteps. On occasion, I would hide behind a tree. When the footsteps stopped, he predictably turned to check my whereabouts. This confirmed his devotion to me, a method that has never worked with my wife, who once walked ahead of me for a half mile while I hid behind a tree.

My walk with Barney was changing. He didn't hear my footsteps anymore, so he'd waddle along with his body almost at right angles, bent in the middle, so he could see me at every step. He looked as though he had a perpetual stiff neck years old. If he turned and looked ahead, he'd have no evidence I was following him.

He could still smell a doughnut a block away and he remained bright-eyed and alert, even for almost thirteen years old. If you saw Barney at an event, you couldn't tell his ears had failed him. It didn't matter, he could still feel the love: Isn't he cute? Isn't he adorable? Isn't he precious? I sometimes wondered if he could read lips.

I'd known and loved Barney for a dozen years, but since I'd found him by my front door, I never knew his exact age. It was one of the questions I had to field throughout his our television careers.

“How old is he?”

I'm not sure how many times I answered that question over the years. Not about me. About Barney. My answer changed every year, of course. Inquiries about my age, however, required a more consistent response. Heck, I said I was
about
fifty for more than a decade.

Each November when we made personal appearances at the local holiday gift and hobby show, I'd print up a sign with Barney's age so I did not have to repeat the answer to literally thousands of fans who started each conversation this way.

Naturally, I did get other questions, and some downright bizarre ones over the years.

“Is Barney his real name?”

No, his real name is Alan, but we changed it because it just doesn't work on TV.

“Is Barney your dog?”

No, he's a rental. Pet him quick. He's due back in an hour.

Honestly, I resisted those snappy retorts because they could suggest a lack of respect for the questioner, often just a sincere fan who wanted to make conversation. I was torn between the comic Dick Wolfsie and the pet lover Dick Wolfsie, Barney's dad.

As Barney grew in stature (both in fame and fat) I started hearing things like, “Whoa, he's getting up there in years,” and “How's ol' Barn doing?” But the worst was, “Dick, what are you going to do when he's gone?”

Despite the hearing loss, Barney still remained ornery and mischievous, the two qualities that allowed him to keep his competitive edge as a TV talent.

Brett was now in middle school and less bothered by Barney's distractive behavior, but still not a fan. Three quarters of Brett's life, as far back as his memory would take him, there had been a Barney. This tarnished and then cemented his view of all canines as needy, destructive competitors. To this day, my son—now an adult—doesn't warm easily to dogs. How ironic that this self-professed cat lover hailed from a family whose dog stole the hearts of everyone else in central Indiana.

Mary Ellen had become the reluctant admirer, now sensing that his days were numbered and recognizing what an impact he had made on Indianapolis. And our own lives. She remained until the end Barney's mom, a mantle she once wore unwillingly, but now wore as a badge of honor, like a military hero tested in combat.

Barney had never had a sick day in his life until his final years. Other than two nasty bites out of his butt, both by a couple of pugnacious pugs we encountered on a leisurely walk in the woods, his hearty beagle nature generally kept him away from the vet except for normal checkups. Save those few places he was clearly not allowed (and there weren't many) and the one place I knew petrified him—the ice rink at Market Square arena, where he could never get his footing—he never missed a show. Not to brag, but I never missed a show myself. Like anyone ever noticed.

But then Barney started to gain even more additional weight. I knew something was wrong. Bob McCune, Barney's regular doc, suggested I see a veterinary internist in Anderson, Indiana, who was part of a well-known clinic run by the state's top animal orthopedist. But Dr. McCune also warned that specialists were inclined to suggest some rather heroic techniques that I might not be comfortable with.

I had taken Barney there once when I thought his tail had been caught in a door. The happy appendage had stopped wagging, a clear sign that Barney was suffering. Dr. Lee had X-rayed the tail and confirmed there had been a minor fracture.

“Does it hurt him?” I asked.

“It's like impotence,” explained the vet. “Painless but humiliating.”

Needless to say, his tail healed. And wagged uninterruptedly for many years.

At the clinic, the internist ran some preliminary tests, then provided me with an entire list of options I could consider to better pinpoint the diagnosis. Many of the tests were intrusive. And expensive. Money was not the issue, but Barney had reached the stage where I believed that the entire ordeal would just result in a potential short extension of his life. And who was I doing that for—him or me?

I opted for a few of the procedures, primarily to rule out one disorder that was quite treatable. When the tests came back, so did a bombshell. Barney had a possible abscess on one of his kidneys and the specialist was suggesting that it be removed. Not the abscess, the kidney. I listened to her rationale but was unconvinced. This was a twelve-year-old dog suffering no apparent pain and still pleased as puppy chow to accompany me every day and do his thing.

The next day I went to see Dr. McCune, who agreed that it was a quality-of-life issue. The trauma of the surgery coupled with a tough recovery period dissuaded me from the dramatic procedure that was being recommended.

Going home in the car, I pulled over to the side of the road and gave Barney a hug, as I often did when we faced a mutual problem. “I think we made the right decision, ol' buddy.”

The thought of his death, and life without Barney, was something I did not do a lot of thinking about. I had heard that Bob and Tom, hosts of a nationally syndicated radio show that originated in Indianapolis, had large insurance policies on each other's lives, protecting them and their families against financial loss if one of the partners died. How clever that was, but probably not something even Lloyd's of London would do for a guy and his dog. My life insurance agent was a good friend, but this was not a call I was going to make.