Mornings With Barney (21 page)

Saturday morning, Brett and I went out to the back of the house to dig the grave. Our backyard was rocky with hundreds of trees, which meant that if you dug just a few inches down, you'd run smack into a root system. The tears flowed and Brett, who had warmed to Barney near the end, put his arm around my shoulder and reminded me what a great life I had given Barney—and he had given me.

At that moment, I saw a change in Brett. He was older and was no longer dealing with the same issues that had confronted him as a toddler when Dad's pet destroyed his toys and competed for his parents' attention. I don't think he ever developed a true affection for Barney, but he finally realized how much he had meant to me and all the people who watched him every day.

“Everybody loved him, didn't they, Dad?” They sure did, Brett. They sure did.

Once I had buried Barney and covered him with dirt, I leaned the headstone against a nearby tree. More tears. More even than the night he died.

I decided then that his burial spot would be a secret, a decision motivated by my reading Laura Hillebrand's book,
Seabiscuit.
The Howard family, owners of the famous racehorse, did not want the interment to be made public. Both Seabiscuit and Barney were unlikely stars who had touched an entire community. But some things, said the Howards, needed to remain private. I agreed. Plus, Barney was now buried
illegally.
More grief I didn't need.

I have now shared this secret with you. I'm sure it is safe.

That weekend I did a couple of book signings and sidestepped the inevitable inquiries from fans: How's Barney? Where's Barney? I gave a speech that night to a local Chamber of Commerce and peppered the presentation with funny Barney stories. His non-appearance at evening events was understood, especially at dinners where his lack of self-control around food was funny for about five minutes, then downright annoying.

But why the deception? I wasn't sure. I did know that what was a distinctly personal tragedy in my life had some real consequences in central Indiana. Blurting it out, even to close friends and colleagues that morning, would have meant that soon it would become evident that I had somehow managed to soldier my way through an omelet demo just hours after central Indiana's favorite canine had died. Sure, some people would say that was the professional in me. The other 98 percent would think I was a callous jerk. Even I wasn't sure which was more accurate.

I didn't sleep at all that weekend. I just stared into space. I had lost my best friend. I had lost my business partner.

It was probably a full week before an overwhelming sense of guilt hit me. I questioned every decision I made the day he died. Should I have realized the day was too hot for him? Should I have brought him back for the parade? Did I really have to go to see Garrison Keillor that night?

I shared all this with close friends and, of course, Mary Ellen. Needless to say, they all thought I was silly to feel any responsibility for his death, but the hurt cut so deep that I was almost immobilized. That's all I thought about.

That Monday I told our news director of Barney's death. Tom Cochrun had been on the job for exactly one day. He was a former investigative reporter-turned anchor-turned documentary producer. He enjoyed a good reputation and was an old friend. He had taken over for former director Lee Giles in order to reinvent the WISH-TV news presentation, which some felt needed a makeover.

For almost a year I had been aware that things were a-changin' in local TV news. The tragedy of 9/11 had led to some research suggesting that local TV viewers didn't have time for nonessential viewing. Weather, traffic, and local news drove the ratings. Warm, fuzzy stories and human interest pieces might work in the early evening when people were home and settled in for the night, but they were just an interruption in the AM when people needed to gulp down their coffee and get to work. This research was not a good sign for guys like me who did fun stuff.

Cochrun was appropriately sympathetic when I told him, but I don't think this was what he wanted to deal with on his first day. Of course, you can never predict what will happen in news. So this was good training for him. He made no statement or reference to my acquiring another dog. I suppose that made sense, lest he be accused of being insensitive and thinking only of the commercial value of the next “Barney.” As I walked out the door, I was confused as to what was next. Another dog? Another job?

Cochrun released the information to the paper on Tuesday and the news spread quickly. Pam Elliot, the morning anchor, was assigned the task of doing a feature on Barney's life and Debbie Knox, the veteran anchor, reported the event as a news story that evening. In both accounts we played the more famous clips, including his rosebush incident and the coondog competition.

The
Indianapolis Star
ran a front-page story titled “The Little Bandit Is Dead,” and the story came with an apology from the writer, who phoned to tell me that she had written a more detailed account of Barney's life and influence, but her boss didn't quite get it. “Why would we write that much about a dog?” he asked her. The
Star
at the time had undergone many changes including a huge influx of editors from the Gannett newspaper chain who did not know the city.

The phone rang all night. E-mails piled in, more than 500 by 10 PM Dozens of floral bouquets showed up on my doorstep and at the studio. Two days later, my mailbox at WISH-TV was crammed with cards and letters of condolence. Truly astonishing in this age when dashing off something at the computer is the easiest way to communicate. People even sent dog biscuits.
Huh?
By the end of the week, I had more than 3,000 e-mails, including one from AOL asking what was going on. Had I been spammed to death?

At first I tried to answer every correspondence. The task was monumental, and finally I realized that I couldn't spend the next two weeks in the basement responding to every wellwisher. Every now and then, I occasionally run into people who did get one of my few thank-you notes, and their gratitude is so sincere I have some regrets that I did not finish the task.

Most people were doing more than expressing condolences; they were sharing a personal story of their own losses. Barney's passing was an opportunity to vent these feelings. And it wasn't always about a pet. For some, grieving over Barney helped deal with memories of family, parents, and siblings. Some of the letters were hard to read because they were so intensely personal from people I had never met. Yes, they felt as though they knew me and could share what they had gone through in a similar situation.

Almost every fan had a favorite Barney memory. I was struck at how different segments had tickled different people, occasionally even reminding me of a show that I had long since forgotten. “Dick, do you remember the time Barney got his nose stuck on the dry ice?” Actually, I had forgotten all about that. Thanks for the memory.

Viewers had been touched by Barney, amused by him, maybe even had food stolen by him—and they wanted me to know it. As much as I had come to understand Barney's celebrity, I now fully appreciated the emotional attachment people had to him. I have the letters. I've read them. And wept.

Friends, colleagues, and fans also shared their feelings about my getting a new dog. Some felt that a replacement would mend my broken heart and repair a professional setback. But should it be a beagle? “No,” said many. “There will never be another Barney.” “He will remind you too much of Barney.” “It would be an insult to Barney.” Others urged me to find another beagle. Only then, they said, could I fill the void.

Barney's appearance on TV at 5 AM, or whenever in the morning you first tuned in, was a signal for the day to start. Car crashes, murders, floods, scams, all the stations covered that stuff. But for tens of thousands of people every morning, the little brown and white and black menace was the official beginning of the day. Hundreds of my e-mails began: “I can't start my morning until I see Barney” or “It takes a little mischief to get my adrenaline going.” I was struck by the depth of the emotion. These were not just fans: they were more like converts to some kind of beagle cult.

Many of the letters shared favorite moments, personal interactions with Barney, usually at a public appearance. “You won't remember me, but I held Barney at the Tipton Library while you made a speech. He got in my purse and ate half my lipstick.” “I walked Barney at the fair while you were selling books.” “Hey, Dick. I rescued Barney from the thorn bushes once.”

With all the grief I was feeling, I still felt guilt about how I had pushed Barney his final day at the fair. A letter from animal behavior expert Dr. Gary Sampson finally eased the pain.

I had not heard from Gary since the day on my front porch nine years earlier when Barney had gnawed through the microphone cable and uprooted the rosebushes during Dr. Sampson's explanation of how to cure destructive behavior in dogs.

“I will always remember Barney and what a neat dog he was,” said Dr. Sampson. “And how special for both of you that he should have spent his final day just as he lived his whole life, in front of the people he loved and those who loved him.”

I still have every e-mail and letter—several thousand of them—and I reread most of them in preparation for writing this book. Had I exaggerated in my own mind how much he was loved? Not a bit. But if I had to pick one public acknowledgment of how Barney affected people, it would be the billboard a local veterinarian placed outside his clinic. He was not Barney's doctor, just a fan. I saw it quite by accident as I drove by a few days after I buried my sidekick.

I pulled over to the side of the road. I didn't cry. Instead, I had a huge grin on my face. For the next hour.

On live TV the first morning after his death was announced, I acknowledged the condolences of the
Daybreak
team but did not make any attempt to relate the events of the previous days, in part because I had spun a story related to the date of his death. But also because I feared that I would break down emotionally prior to the beginning of the next segment. That night I went home and wrote this column for local newspapers.

A few days after that column appeared, an e-mail was sent to staff by the general manager—interestingly, one that I never got—instructing station employees not to respond to any inquiries from the press, or from viewers for that matter, about whether there would be a replacement for Barney. At first glance, I was perplexed by the memo when a colleague showed it to me because I had already responded during my interview with the local anchor, making it clear that the hunt would soon commence for a new sidekick. Worse, the local paper, the
Indianapolis Star
, had run a front-page feature about Barney's demise and had quoted me as saying there would be another beagle at some point. Had I stuck my paw in my mouth?

So what did this edict mean? Well, if the station was smart, it would milk this situation for all it was worth. Newspaper ads, station promotion, Humane Society involvement, more Barney look-alike contests. This was going to be big: who will be the next Barney?

But that's not what the e-mail was implying. That's not what my gut had told me for two years, ever since 9/11. Instead, it appeared I was getting a subtle signal that the dog days of WISH-TV were over. That the morning news would no longer be identified by a renegade little beagle who had captured the hearts of every single viewer. The station felt it was time to move on.

I have no idea how many lives Barney touched. Every morning in front of their TV sets tens of thousands of people anticipated his appearance and were primed to smile and head out for work. When they arrived at the office or the factory, they delivered a Channel 8 commercial: “Did you see
Daybreak
today? You will not believe what Barney did.” “Did you see him chew that boxing glove?” “Can you believe he ate an entire plate of lasagna?”

Barney met the needs of each person he encountered. Everybody who ever hugged Barney, or scratched his belly or his ears, connected with him. This is not some romantic notion. I have heard the stories, seen the response. I watched the dog do his thing. And he did it so well that I really believe he was one of a kind.

Canines differ in temperament and mood, so clearly some dogs could not have played a TV role. But there are packs of pooches out there who are as loving and charming as Barney was. Could another dog, had he shown up on my steps, have been a Barney? Good question.