Mornings With Barney by Dick Wolfsie (reading books for 4 year olds .txt) 📗

COME MEET DICK WOLFSIE AND BARNEY SATURDAY MORNING

That Saturday morning, Barney and I got up and headed north, about an hour’s drive. The weather was great and I was hoping for a good turnout that would put me in good standing with Hardee’s. But I was nervous. This could be a bust.

Barney and I arrived almost an hour early. Imagine my delight to see a full parking lot and a long line to get into the restaurant. There were hundreds of kids, balloons, clowns. It even looked like the parents were in a good mood.

“We’re a hit,” I said to Barney, who had already picked up the sausage scent and whose nose was twitching a mile a minute. My elation was short-lived, however. The owner was making his way toward me. I expected a big smile, but instead he looked as if he had just eaten a very bad fish sandwich. “What’s the matter? The place is rocking,” I said. “You should be thrilled.”

“Yes, we have quite a crowd,” he agreed. “But the parents thought you were coming with a dinosaur—a purple dinosaur.”

Oops. We were in deep dino dung. Every parent in that parking lot had for the entire week been trumpeting to his preschooler that the child’s dream was finally going to come true, that right there in little old Muncie, Indiana, the one and only internationally famous prehistoric reptile was going to make an appearance. Instead it was Dick Wolfsie ... and his dog. Whoopee!

The tail went between the legs—mine, not the dog’s. Barney was ready to party. I could now see fathers and mothers explaining to their disconsolate, dinosaur-starved children about how this very disappointing mix-up could occur. Oh, and the kids were very understanding, evidenced by the crying, screaming, and kicking that permeated the parking lot.

There had to be a way to make something positive out of this prehistoric debacle. I remember climbing back in the car and making a personal appeal to my buddy. “Let’s go get ‘em, partner. This is our first big test!”

Barney jumped out of the car and we headed for the fast-food eatery. It took just a couple of children to notice him. I held my breath. “Hey, it’s a dog!” a youngster screamed. Then another: “Why is there a dog at Hardee’s?” “That’s the dog on TV,” said my favorite kid of all. In violation of every health code, we walked into the restaurant. Barney hopped into one of the booths and sniffed the table, his wagging tail sticking through the space in the seat.

Now an even longer line had developed outside the restaurant. Probably not because Barney was there, but any line meant something cool was going on. Barney was in his heaven: sausage was in the air, belly rubs and ear strokes were as abundant as flaky biscuits, and suddenly, all was right in the fast-food world.

I knew we would never reach Barney the Purple Dinosaur status, but even an old fossil like me could see that entire families were responding to Barney in a unique way. Different, I think, than they would have to the TV cartoon figure. Many of the patrons had not even seen us on TV, but I sensed that each one felt as though Barney had come to see him or her. A one-to-one relationship with every single child.

And that’s how it was for the next twelve years. No matter where Barney and I went, it never was staged or rehearsed. I never wanted it to be showbizzy. It was a not a public appearance. It was a personal visit, and everyone knew it.

Compare Barney to Nipper and Chipper, the two Jack Russells who represented corporate giant RCA. One of the earliest memories I have of a corporate logo was the old RCA image of the adorable Jack Russell terrier with the dark ears listening intently to a phonograph record over the caption, “His Master’s Voice.” The trademark painting was actually based on a real dog named Nipper who belonged to Francis Barraud, the artist who created it.

I was amused at several aspects of this marketing concept, which I witnessed firsthand when they made appearances in Indy. First, these dogs had no personality. Hyperactive? Yes. Character? Totally lacking. Charm? Zero. If Barney had been Mr. Barraud’s model, the artist would have painted a beagle listening to his master’s voice ... and ignoring it.

And once the dogs playing Nipper and Chipper grew an inch or so, they had to be replaced by new dogs-in-waiting to retain their ever-youthful appearance to the public. If every time Barney gained a pound or two I had to replace him, it would have gotten very pricey and crowded at my house. Even odder was the fact that the trainer would not allow the public to pet the dogs, afraid that the dogs might get a disease.

What a concept: you schlep personality-deficient dogs around the country to publicize your product, but don’t let people get too close to them or that might actually promote goodwill with your customers.

I’m glad I didn’t get that memo. Barney’s effect on people was all about his accessibility. Belly rubs and ear scratches were gratefully accepted and rewarded with rapid rotation of the tail and groans of pleasure. In public there were hardly any rules of engagement with Barney. No sticking the end of your lollipop in his ear. That was about it for guidelines.

And unlike Nipper and Chipper, Barney and I didn’t sell a single TV. But we sure got people to watch it.

From Soupy to Nuts

Barney wasn’t the first dog to appear regularly on television. But he may have been the first to appear as himself. Unlike Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and Yukon King, Barney went on without a script, without trainers or handlers, without a fictional character to hide behind. He didn’t do his work in little