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

The question of what sort of container I should use for his body troubled me. He deserved a wooden box, but a canine coffin was not something you can put your finger on at a moment’s notice. Instead, I simply wrapped him in one of my bedsheets, a sheet he had probably spent more than a few thousand hours sleeping on.

Saturday morning, Brett and I went out to the back of the house to dig the grave. Our backyard was rocky with hundreds of trees, which meant that if you dug just a few inches down, you’d run smack into a root system. The tears flowed and Brett, who had warmed to Barney near the end, put his arm around my shoulder and reminded me what a great life I had given Barney—and he had given me.

At that moment, I saw a change in Brett. He was older and was no longer dealing with the same issues that had confronted him as a toddler when Dad’s pet destroyed his toys and competed for his parents’ attention. I don’t think he ever developed a true affection for Barney, but he finally realized how much he had meant to me and all the people who watched him every day.

“Everybody loved him, didn’t they, Dad?” They sure did, Brett. They sure did.

Once I had buried Barney and covered him with dirt, I leaned the headstone against a nearby tree. More tears. More even than the night he died.

I decided then that his burial spot would be a secret, a decision motivated by my reading Laura Hillebrand’s book, Seabiscuit. The Howard family, owners of the famous racehorse, did not want the interment to be made public. Both Seabiscuit and Barney were unlikely stars who had touched an entire community. But some things, said the Howards, needed to remain private. I agreed. Plus, Barney was now buried illegally. More grief I didn’t need.

I have now shared this secret with you. I’m sure it is safe.

That weekend I did a couple of book signings and sidestepped the inevitable inquiries from fans: How’s Barney? Where’s Barney? I gave a speech that night to a local Chamber of Commerce and peppered the presentation with funny Barney stories. His non-appearance at evening events was understood, especially at dinners where his lack of self-control around food was funny for about five minutes, then downright annoying.

But why the deception? I wasn’t sure. I did know that what was a distinctly personal tragedy in my life had some real consequences in central Indiana. Blurting it out, even to close friends and colleagues that morning, would have meant that soon it would become evident that I had somehow managed to soldier my way through an omelet demo just hours after central Indiana’s favorite canine had died. Sure, some people would say that was the professional in me. The other 98 percent would think I was a callous jerk. Even I wasn’t sure which was more accurate.

I didn’t sleep at all that weekend. I just stared into space. I had lost my best friend. I had lost my business partner.

It was probably a full week before an overwhelming sense of guilt hit me. I questioned every decision I made the day he died. Should I have realized the day was too hot for him? Should I have brought him back for the parade? Did I really have to go to see Garrison Keillor that night?

I shared all this with close friends and, of course, Mary Ellen. Needless to say, they all thought I was silly to feel any responsibility for his death, but the hurt cut so deep that I was almost immobilized. That’s all I thought about.

That Monday I told our news director of Barney’s death. Tom Cochrun had been on the job for exactly one day. He was a former investigative reporter-turned anchor-turned documentary producer. He enjoyed a good reputation and was an old friend. He had taken over for former director Lee Giles in order to reinvent the WISH-TV news presentation, which some felt needed a makeover.

For almost a year I had been aware that things were a-changin’ in local TV news. The tragedy of 9/11 had led to some research suggesting that local TV viewers didn’t have time for nonessential viewing. Weather, traffic, and local news drove the ratings. Warm, fuzzy stories and human interest pieces might work in the early evening when people were home and settled in for the night, but they were just an interruption in the AM when people needed to gulp down their coffee and get to work. This research was not a good sign for guys like me who did fun stuff.

Cochrun was appropriately sympathetic when I told him, but I don’t think this was what he wanted to deal with on his first day. Of course, you can never predict what will happen in news. So this was good training for him. He made no statement or reference to my acquiring another dog. I suppose that made sense, lest he be accused of being insensitive and thinking only of the commercial value of the next “Barney.” As I walked out the door, I was confused as to what was next. Another dog? Another job?

Cochrun released the information to the paper on Tuesday and the news spread quickly. Pam Elliot, the morning anchor, was assigned the task of doing a feature on Barney’s life and Debbie Knox, the veteran anchor, reported the event as a news story that evening. In both accounts we played the more famous clips, including his rosebush incident and the coondog competition.

The Indianapolis Star ran a front-page story titled “The Little Bandit Is Dead,” and the story came with an apology from the writer, who phoned to tell me that she had written a more detailed account of Barney’s life and influence, but her boss didn’t quite get it. “Why would we