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

annoyingly reasonable. But was that what the station wanted? They hoped for controversy, but they were concerned when listeners called to complain about my views. On the other hand, they knew that a strong reaction to me might ultimately generate ratings. It was an odd calculus. I was caught in the middle. Nobody knew who they wanted me to be. Least of all me, although I was sure I would not compromise my views based on viewer feedback.

Here was the bottom line (and it was all about the bottom line): You can get away with a weak opening act for Wayne Newton in Vegas. On radio, it’s too easy to switch to another channel. They were beginning to think that Rush deserved a better lead-in.

Quitting did not seem like an option. I had lost enough jobs in my life that I didn’t feel I had the luxury of giving one up on my own. There was hope that eventually I’d get canned. It had certainly happened before. Too many times.

After I had been on the air for about six months, a new program manager took over, part of the sale of WIBC to Emmis Communications. His last name was Hatfield, a subtle hint I was in for a feud. I knew from my first exchange with him that I was doomed. He made me justify every issue I discussed, every guest I booked, and every position I took. He didn’t like the way I read the weather or the way I introduced the commercial spots. He didn’t like the fact I was also on TV. Oh, and he didn’t like dogs in the studio. Hey, this all looked like a fairly good clue to some serious trouble down the road.

In January 1995, I had just finished my show when I was passed a note to see the program manager immediately. I walked into his office and it was clear what would ensue. I was going to get the ax. Seated next to Hatfield was the GM, who I had thought was a decent guy and had worked with before.

“That was your last show,” Hatfield said. “People don’t like you. Give me your key.”

Huh? I looked at the GM, who knew of my growing popularity in the TV market. The guy just sat there. Not a word. I’m still ticked about that.

Barney, who had accompanied me as always, was in the chair next to me.

“Yes, you’re fired,” repeated the program manager, “and so’s your little dog, Barney.” The wicked witch of the Midwest had spoken.

The next day, the paper ran the story of my dismissal. Later in the week, scores of letters were printed, some in support of me, but most agreeing that my views just didn’t jive with most Hoosiers. I had nothing to be ashamed of, but the public nature of the axing was humiliating.

I walked out of the studio and loaded Barney in the car. I remember tilting the seat back just to rest my brain, a clear indication to the beagle that he could nestle his head on my lap. This was common behavior when we went on speaking engagements that required a lengthy road trip and a nap along the way at a rest stop.

I have no romantic notions that dogs always sense what their owner is feeling. I only know this: With his face in my lap, he rolled his eyes toward the top of his head and fixed his gaze on me. When I finally returned the seat to the upright position, his head remained in my lap for the trip home.

For me, it was the end of daily hourlong debates about O. J. Simpson, Bosnia, and welfare mothers. For Barney, it was the end of 10 AM treats. We would both survive. We had a TV show to do the next morning.

Mary Ellen was relieved, and not surprised at the news. She thought Brett would benefit from the change. That night I decided to tell my son, couching it in a positive narrative. “Dad has some great news. You know how little time we have to spend together? Well, starting tomorrow, Dad has decided not to do the radio show anymore. I want to have more time for us to fish together, read stories, and play baseball.” Brett, whose nose was buried in a plate of SpaghettiOs, glanced at my wife and said, “Hey, Mom, I think Dad got fired!”

The next day I was free of that daunting responsibility of reading all the New York Times editorials and every article in Newsweek, and gagging through Rush’s show on the way home in the car.

It was fine with Barney, I thought. The chair was really not very comfortable in the studio. There were plenty of treats at home. Home. That had a nice sound to it.

A few months after my dismissal at the radio station, Sally, the sales rep who had so loved Barney and supplied him with daily treats, was diagnosed with cancer. During her illness, Barney and I visited her at home and on several occasions and when she felt up to it, she would show up at one of our morning segments. Barney recognized her perfume and would howl at the top of his lungs when she was within one hundred feet.

On one occasion, we went to the hospital to see Sally, but we were stopped at the elevator by a security guard who gave Barney the once-over. “Is he a service dog?”

“No.”

“Is he a therapy dog?”

“No, this is Barney from Channel 8,” I explained.

“Go right in,” said the guard, who broke into a huge grin. He had known it all along. Within five minutes, every nurse on the floor and several patients came to meet Barney.

Sally died six months later.

At the funeral, her best friend, Margo, asked if I had a photo of Barney in my car. When I retrieved the picture, she motioned me to accompany her to the open coffin. When we approached, Margo slipped the photo under