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

an assortment of talent, too: big, little, purebreds, mutts, howlers, whiners. Each owner told his or her dog to stay, then turned and walked fifty feet to the back of the training room. Every single one of the dogs stayed right in line—with one notable exception. He certainly never did this when we went for a walk, but for the first time ever, Barney followed me. He actually followed me. Hey, maybe the training was working. Sort of.

Barney was placed back in line. Part two of the final exam was to see if the dogs would go to their owners. Barney had just proven he could do that. Everyone called their dogs. Each dog scampered to his owner. You guessed it, there was one exception . . . again. Barney headed for the kitchen area and launched himself into a trash can containing the remains of someone’s beef burrito.

Later that night, all the dogs got a diploma. Including Barney. Like my cousin’s online PhD, it meant nothing. Even the Irish setter outperformed Barney.

Some of the owners were bragging about their pets’ new behaviors. “Selma wants to be a rescue dog.” “Chotsie is going to herd sheep.” “Arnold will be a watchdog.”

I looked into Barney’s big brown eyes. He bowed his head and his ears cascaded over his eyes. Was it shame? “You’re going to do just fine,” I told him. I was dead-on about that, but at the time, I had some serious doubts.

“How’d it go?” asked Mary Ellen when we walked in the door later that evening.

“I think it was a huge waste of time,” I admitted. Mary Ellen gave us both a hug. We needed it.

Obedience school lasted six weeks, but during that time, Barney was making more and more appearances on-screen, including one that was a major factor in his career development, defining what made Barney a TV celebrity.

By late March, the morning anchors half expected that I would somehow work Barney into one of the segments or teases—a cameo appearance, if you will. I tried to balance his play on the air because I had never asked or received permission from either of my bosses to include a dog in my segment. This was either a very gutsy move on my part or monumentally stupid. I knew eventually I’d find out.

Before you read the following story, I’m going to admit something: I’m not sure it’s 100 percent true. I’ve told it for so long that I can’t remember anymore. Vince Welsh, then our sports anchor, can’t remember either. But we think it’s true. Most of it, anyway. That’s the way of legends.

When I brought Barney on the show and my segment was outside, I would usually keep him tethered to a stake. (To a dog that doesn’t know what a homonym is, this would sound like fun!) To keep him in my view, I often placed him near the portable TV set I used to monitor what was going on back at the station.

After one of Vince’s sports updates, he was to toss it to me in the field (a nice sports metaphor). Then Vince, who got a kick out of my bringing the dog on TV, asked about Barney while we were live on the air. I wasn’t happy about the inquiry. True, the dog was now appearing on the air more regularly, but anchor recognition of this ongoing event assigned it a new credibility, like it was really part of the show. I wasn’t sure how this would play with the bosses.

“Where’s Barney?” asked Vince.

“Oh, he’s tied up over there by the TV.”

Vince couldn’t resist: “Well, he must be watching me. I guess he’s a big fan.”

At that point, Marcus, my photographer, panned to Barney, who had been sniffing around the perimeter of the TV monitor. Just as the camera zeroed in on him, he lifted his leg and peed right on the twelve-inch Magnavox screen.

“Yeah, Vince, he’s a big fan.”

In television, one way you know you have connected with that invisible audience of viewers is the crew’s reaction. In the background, through the anchors’ microphones, I could hear the laughter of the cameraman, directors, and producers. Barney had a way of putting a person in his place. Sometimes it was a better place. Vince was an eager and talented new face on our station in those days. Not cocky, really, but self-assured. We can all use a touch of humility.

That moment on TV was graphic enough that it led to a note in my mailbox from general manager, Paul Karpowicz. My worst fears were confirmed. It brought back memories of every note I had ever gotten from a teacher or principal: SEE ME.

A Boy’s Life—or, Raised by Wolfsies

“See me” really did send chills down my spine. I guess it’s because I spent lots of time in the principal’s office as a kid in New York. Every report card from kindergarten through sixth grade was one teacher’s lament after the other, a verbal wringing of the hands. My parents were told I had no self-control, I was a wise guy, and I was caretaker of the messiest desk in the history of Roosevelt School. I could have been the poster child for ADD. But they had not invented that diagnosis yet.

For me there was quite literally no prescription for success. Every day was torture, sitting for hours listening to the teacher, desperately searching for the right time to offer a wisecrack to the class. There was the one thing I was good at: ad-libbing. I even remember my first real gem back in the third grade. Miss Davis had cautioned a student about the danger of chewing on his pencil.

“What would happen if you swallowed that pencil?” she asked Mark Fisher.

My hand shot up. “He could borrow my pen.”

The crowd went wild. But I was in trouble, as always. I sat for two hours after class and had the privilege of writing my little wisecrack 1,000 times on the