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

our weatherman, told me that there was a chance of heavy precipitation and possibly lightning, both of which would effectively cancel the annual festivities. As far as I knew, this had never happened before, but Barney and I headed out the door as usual for our first segment, scheduled for 5:15 AM Even if the race was going to be called off, I still needed to fill my three spots in the morning news.

These kinds of last-minute changes were a challenge, so they really got the adrenaline going. How do you do a segment about a balloon race when there are no balloons, there are no balloonists, and there are no bystanders? That was the prospect I faced if the prediction for heavy rain became a reality.

Once we arrived at the fairgrounds, we headed under the tunnel to the infield, an area surrounded by a horse track where every morning the trotters and pacers would get their early morning workout. As I drove onto the field behind the station van, you could see that people had already gathered for the balloon event. For many families this was the beginning of a tradition because the balloon race was only a few years old. But the idea of starting a ritual that could last generations had great appeal to Hoosiers. The fair always has been about custom and history.

The chants for Barney started as soon he stuck his head out of the car window. Once I parked, a line formed. I began signing pictures of Barney, sketching in his paw print with a black Magic Marker.

The downpour began about 5:30. Barney and I rushed back to seek shelter with my photographer, who had opted not to put up the mast atop the satellite truck, the device that sends the live signal back to the station. Putting an antenna up in a thunderstorm was just asking for trouble—like holding up your two-iron on the golf course—so we decided to sit tight and see if the skies would clear.

I took a call from the producer back at the station and was temporarily distracted. When I turned around, Barney was gone. Most dogs do not like rain. Barney included. But this was the State Fair and already the meaty aroma from the vendors had wafted toward the infield. He was off. And I couldn’t search for him. I was scheduled to be on in ten minutes.

I looked out on the infield and saw a rotund man standing in a huge puddle of water. Did I say rotund? Let me revise. His potbelly protruded out almost a foot from his belt. He must have weighed 500 pounds. Water cascaded down around his mammoth physique. Apparently, he was in charge of the final decision as to the running of the balloon race. It looked like he had a tri-corder from the old Star Trek series. It was some kind of device that gave him immediate contact with the National Weather Service.

And Barney? His wanderlust had become a touch waterlogged, so he had situated himself between this man’s legs, under his belly, using the man’s girth as protection from the elements.

Every time the man moved, Barney repositioned himself. It was like a well choreographed dance. If the man moved forward, Barney moved with him. If he stepped back, Barney retreated. Even this guy was getting a kick out of Barney’s well-timed avoidance of the rain.

Unfortunately, this was never seen on TV. Remember, we hadn’t been on the air, but hundreds of rabid balloon fans who had not left the fairgrounds did see this classic moment.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Pup

Barney never attained the kind of stature enjoyed by Elvis Presley, but a few comparisons should not go unnoticed. Both celebrities enjoyed doughnuts and peanut butter, and both were favorite subjects of artists who captured the charm and charisma of these unique personalities through every imaginable medium. Happily, there is no known depiction of Barney on a velvet canvas. I happily yield that distinction to the King.

Over the years, packages arrived via UPS, bundles appeared on my desk at the TV station, and boxes were just dumped on my front porch. The contents were the true spectrum of trash to treasure, but every painting, carving, sculpture, or drawing represented a genuine attempt by viewers—whether they had a smidgen of talent or not—to feel a part of Barney’s legacy. Now their love of this little street dog had been expressed in a very concrete way. And one time it actually was concrete. This was their method of saying thanks for all the smiles and laughs Barney provided every morning.

It reached the point where “Barney” was all over the house. He was on the walls, in drawers, under our bed, on shelves in the garage, on the pool table in the basement. Unlike promotional T-shirts that I was given after a TV remote, I couldn’t possibly discard or give away any of this memorabilia that slowly but surely was taking over my house like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors. On rare occasions when I was on a cleaning binge, I would chuck something, then hours later I’d fish it out of the garbage, wondering how the elderly woman from Tipton would feel if she knew I was trashing her pen and ink drawing of her favorite TV celebrity.

Mary Ellen agreed that we couldn’t discard anything, but she didn’t want the living room to look like the pub at the North American Hunting Club, so only two pieces of art found a place in the living room. Translation: my wife picked what she liked best and proclaimed: “And this shall represent all the other stuff in the house that shall not be in plain sight.” Not many things get to be in our living room without going through a strict Mary Ellen selection and screening process. For example, I have an Emmy Award. Would you like to see it? I’ll meet you in