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

“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