Mornings With Barney by Dick Wolfsie (e book reader .TXT) 📕

During the brief interview with the Purdue University diving coach, I noticed Carl, my photographer, trying to suppress a laugh, although there seemed to also be a touch of horror in his expression. If you are shooting live television and your photographer is laughing while you are on camera and there is nothing amusing going on that you are aware of, it is safe to say that there is something amusing going on you are not aware of. Like your fly is open.

Because of the informality of my segment and the morning show in general, I often talked directly to the cameraman while the show was in progress, something that is not a conventional practice on most news shows.

Carl, by the way, did with Barney and me what any good photographer does with a reporter . . . or any fashion photographer does with a model. Carl came to understand the personality of his two subjects.

Carl seldom knew what I was going to do next—nor did I—and no one ever knew what Barney was up to. Carl had to be ready for the unexpected. As the years progressed, he and I started to think the same way. Like married couples. He’d anticipate my next move; after the show he’d say, “I knew where you were going with that.”

Sometimes I’d throw Carl a curve by darting to a different location across the room, or requesting live on the air that he pan his camera quickly to the right or left. In the context of the show, this spontaneity worked just fine.

Barney and Carl bonded. If Barney was bored with his surroundings, he would sit right at Carl’s feet. But when Barney roamed during the segment, Carl kept one eye on the dog, in case he did anything newsworthy or, more important, something funny. At that point, the camera would zero in on the real star.

But back to the Natatorium. “What’s the matter, Carl?” I asked on camera, assuming that his facial expression had something to do with Barney. With that, Carl tilted the camera toward the diving board just above my left shoulder. There, at the very end of the sixty-foot diving platform, looking out over the pool, was Barney.

“Oh, my God!” I screamed. “How the hell did he get up there?”

You try to restrict references to hell on TV unless you are a televangelist, but this seemed quite an appropriate use of the expletive. I dropped the microphone in the middle of the interview and bolted for the platform. In my mind, I could hear people all over the city gasping—okay, maybe a few laughing—but this scene had serious consequences written all over it. A first-time platform dive for either the dog or me in front of tens of thousands of people was not good PR for the station. Even if he scored a 10.

You’re probably wondering how a dog climbs a sixty-foot ladder. I wondered the same thing as I broke into a sweat galloping toward the diving apparatus.

No, Barney didn’t climb a ladder. Entrance to the diving boards and platforms are via traditional stairs, a safety precaution for the athletes—and apparently beagles, as well.

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