Barney: Day One
I remember the day I met Barney. Wait a second. No, I don’t. I haven’t a clue what day it was. It was l991. I know that. And it was cold. Real cold.
It was my first month or so at Channel 8. My new gig involved getting up at 3:30 a.m., stepping on my eyeglasses, stumbling into the shower, putting on two different color socks, and spilling coffee in my lap in the car.
This had become pretty much a routine. Anything that caused me to veer from this schedule threw me off for the rest of the day.
Then on the morning of January 7, or January 21…or was it February 3? I opened my front door and there he was:
AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
A tiny beagle. He was acting hungry. Little did I know, he would act hungry for the next 14 years.
The reason I don’t remember the date is that I did not realize then that my life was about to change. This little beagle who had wandered onto my doorstep would not only brighten my life for the next decade and beyond, but he would become
I wish I had realized that. I would have written down the date. I’m a reporter, you know.
So, now what? My heart went out to the little guy. But I was late for work. I still had an entire cup of coffee to spill on myself. I opened the front door wider and in he walked, like he owned the place. I closed the door and went to work.
You’re right. I am an idiot.
Four hours later, I returned to the house. There was no house left.
Here’s an abbreviated list of what he destroyed:
1. The couch
2. My wife’s high heel shoes
3. The curtains
4. The living room rug
As I walked in the door, my five-year-old son, Brett, was descending the stairs with a beheaded teddy bear and an unstuffed lion. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He stared at Barney, then shot a glance at his decapitated playthings.
“Daddy, can we NOT keep him?”
That pretty much said it all. Barney had not made a good first impression. My wife ordered me to return him, a request hard to fulfill because I did not know where he came from.
I do not remember how long Barney remained at home while I went to work. My wife says it seemed about a year or so. It was probably about three days. Then I got the ultimatum from Mary Ellen: “Look, this is real simple: the dog must go. Either that, or take him to work with you.”
So there you have it. This brilliant concept of turning a street mutt into a TV celebrity was borne out of my wife’s sheer frustration with what was 10 pounds of pure trouble. Barney matured, of course, and would later become 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, and 40 pounds of trouble.
And that is what the rest of the book is about.
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