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

had four of the cutest, most adorable beagle puppies you ever saw and I better act now or they might give them to the pound, where they might be put to sleep. Please, spare me. Things were tough enough.

I resisted most overtures, but some were tough to ignore. I received several calls from two local humane societies and paid them the courtesy of a visit, just to look at the beagles up for adoption. I knew the possible fate of many of these dogs, which was just crushing for me, but none of them looked like Barney. Why should that have mattered? For some reason, I felt no connection to these dogs. The color was wrong, the howl was off, the wag wavered. Too short, too thin. Lack of sufficient floppiness in the ears. The eyes weren’t right. Man, those eyes. That was the deal breaker. No one had eyes like Barney. Right into his soul. And into mine.

There was one beagle, Stanley, at the Hamilton County Humane Society, who did catch my attention. And he looked like Barney, but he was a girl. Yes, a girl named Stanley. And for reasons that I cannot explain but will probably get me in trouble with feminists, this was not a female role I was casting. I wanted a Jim Carrey, not a Tina Fey. I know that’s totally nuts. But that’s how I felt.

One afternoon when I was at my computer writing a newspaper column, the phone rang ... “Mr. Wolfsie, you don’t know me, but I’m down at the shopping center about three minutes from where you live and I drove two hours to show you my six beagle puppies. It would be an honor if you would put one on TV and make him a star.”

I jumped in the car to take a look. How could I not? The dogs were adorable. So adorable, in fact, that while I was playing with them in this huge pen, people in the parking lot recognized me and thought they were about to witness a historic event: the selection of the new Barney. I resisted taking one of the pups, but I am pleased to say that three of the dogs found a home that day.

One of the complications of my decision was that our cat Lindsay, who was within a whisker of twenty-one years old, was in no condition to deal with a new dog. I made a promise—no new dog while Lindsay was still alive—to my wife, and that took the pressure off me to continue the search. Mary Ellen was happy being beagle-less, at least temporarily.

Two weeks later, Lindsay retreated to the laundry room and as cats often do, passed away quietly in private. She was a classy cat who never gave a mouse’s ass about Barney. Over the dozen years, there was an occasional swat and maybe one or two hisses, but Lindsay was unimpressed with the TV star. That’s how cats are.

Our other cat, Benson, still spry at nineteen, might have to face the prospect of a new housemate. I knew he wouldn’t like it. Well, tough.

Then in September, just six weeks after Barney died, a call from a former guest, just one of thousands on my show who had been moved by Barney’s death. Marcia had two loves: dogs and mushrooms. She had been on Daybreak twice, each time highlighting her business, Fungus Amongus, an endeavor that made her a favorite with local chefs who prized her homegrown mold. To quote her T-shirt: SHIITAKE HAPPENS.

“I have a dog I want you to see. A beagle. I’ve had him for a couple of weeks. A stray.”

“Marcia, please don’t do this to me.”

“Dick. You have to see this dog.”

Marcia knew mushrooms, but she also knew dogs. She was harboring about six other rescues at the time and I sensed that her husband, John, was pressuring her to get rid of one. Apparently, the beagle (Toby), the newest edition, had disrupted whatever chemistry had existed within the pack.

Marcia lived three miles away in a rustic farmhouse just off the main thoroughfare. When I pulled in, I heard the cacophony of howls, barks, and whimpers as my car rumbled to a stop on the cobblestone driveway.

I walked in with the feeling that I was going to go home with a new beagle. Marcia greeted me, then retreated to a back room where she managed to release just Toby, although all six dogs were desperately trying to nudge their way through the door and into the main room to greet me.

Out he came, his legs spinning along the wooden floor as he desperately tried to secure his footing. The exuberance in seeing a new face only intensified the furor of his advance and he skidded head first into the sofa. Dazed for a moment, and panting furiously, he gathered himself and then sat up on his hind legs and howled at me.

Oh, God. That’s what Barney used to do. And he looked exactly like Barney. Well, almost. His coloring was virtually identical, although he lacked a tiny white strip on his forehead. Instead, there was a kind of crevice or dent in his head, a place my son would later say was where they were supposed to put his brains. And he was a big beagle, fifteen inches high, not eleven like many beagles. Just like Barney.

And he had the eyes. He had Barney’s eyes. Marcia knew I was hooked. I knew I was hooked. Even the dog knew it.

We struck a deal. I’d take Toby home for the weekend, introduce him to Mary Ellen, Brett, and Benson, and if we could get through Saturday and Sunday without structural damage to the house or major opposition from feline or family, I’d take him.

Toby jumped in the car and we took off for his new home, but before we departed Marcia saddled me with one piece of additional information about the dog. He had been a stray, which I knew, but when