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

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