Mornings With Barney by Dick Wolfsie Page A

that was accomplished, he’d reappear and interact with humans. That was his MO. It never varied.
    I knew when I entered someone’s house or place of business that I had to prevent any potential trouble that could harm Barney. “Are there any animal traps in the place? Is there any rat poison he could get to?” That’s how I started. I took no chances.
    Then it was time to protect the guest. “Is there any human food in the garbage or elsewhere that this dog could reach considering he can open a refrigerator door with his nose, and climb up on a chair to get on a table. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING? NOTHING IS SAFE. Nothing. ” I usually calmed down at the end of the rants so people didn’t think I was a lunatic.
    This approach never worked. People don’t have a very good perception of what accessible rations are stashed about their surroundings. On one St. Patrick’s Day, Barney and I paid a visit to a local retail shop that specialized in everything Irish. The woman and her daughter were big Barney fans and even brought their Irish wolfhound to meet Barney. We walked in, and I said (and this may sound a little familiar) . . .
    â€œIs there any human food, in the garbage or otherwise, that this dog could reach considering he can open a refrigerator door with his nose, and climb up on a chair to get to a table. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING? NOTHING IS SAFE. Nothing. ”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said the Irish lady. Then she glanced at her twelve-year-old daughter, who gave a shrug, which was probably a clue I should have done my own investigation.
    The show went well, although I was distracted because I was trying to keep a careful eye on the expensive Irish cashmere scarves that were displayed at beagle level. The scarves did not appear to be digestible, but that distinction could never be confirmed until Barney had eaten something.
    I did think it odd that Barney was not lurking during the segment. I figured it was because the Irish wolfhound, although a gentle giant the size of a pony, had pretty much scared the heck out of him, and Barney had gone somewhere to hide.
    As the segment ended, the Irish lady’s daughter motioned to her mother.
    â€œMom,” she whispered, “where are those four sticks of butter for the cookies we’re going to bake?”
    I turned red. Green would have been more appropriate for St. Patrick’s Day.
    â€œYou told me there was no food out!” I barked.
    â€œWell,” said the store owner, a touch indignant, “I didn’t think he’d eat four sticks of butter.”
    â€œOh, I see. You thought he was on a low-fat diet?”
    I always tried to avoid even the hint of exasperation with guests, but incidents like this really tested my patience. Jeez, a pound of butter. It couldn’t have been a worse food choice. At least Barney wasn’t lactose intolerant.
    I herded Barney into the car. We had a speaking engagement at 10 that morning in Columbus, Indiana, about ninety minutes away. I’m obviously no expert on animal digestion, but I do have a suggestion: don’t travel in a car for almost two hours with a dog that has just eaten four sticks of butter. Enough said.
    A month later we paid a visit to an office complex where I was to interview the CEO of a new company. The secretary greeted us at the door and gave Barney a hug, the only thing that ever deterred him temporarily from his customary routine of wall-to-wall inspection.
    That’s when I told her . . . well, I think you know what I told her.
    â€œOh, heavens no,” she said. “We never keep food around. That’s unsanitary.”
    Ten minutes later, the boss, who had returned to his office for a brochure, informed his secretary, “Rita, I think Barney ate the cheese Danishes that were on my desk.”
    Rita’s response was a classic. “Both of them?”
    Yes, Rita. Both of them. Go figure. And