Henry and the Great Barbecue Invasion

Management was having a party.

Not just any party.

A barbecue.

Hamburgers. Hot dogs. The sort of occasion that makes an old hound dog wonder whether the good Lord has finally reviewed his complaint about portion sizes.

I knew something important was happening when my human rolled the grill onto the patio, lifted the lid, and stood there staring at it.

He does that before attempting complicated work.

Like assembling a lawn chair.

Or changing the batteries in the television remote.

He scratched his head.

I scratched my ear.

We were both thinking.

Then he opened a package of hamburger meat.

I stopped thinking.

Thinking is useful, but there comes a point when a dog must concentrate on what matters.

I was hoping for small humans.

Small humans are the finest invention since the pantry door.

They have tiny hands, enormous confidence, and absolutely no understanding of how gravity works.

Give a small human a hot dog, a paper plate, and access to a swimming pool, and you have created the most reliable food-delivery system known to hound dogs.

I call it a smorgasbord.

Management calls it, “Henry, quit following those children.”

I don’t follow children.

I provide close personal security.

There is a difference.

The first small human arrived shortly after noon carrying a hot dog approximately the length of his forearm.

I immediately accompanied him to his chair.

He sat.

I sat.

He took a bite.

I opened my mouth slightly.

Just in case.

Then another small human shouted, “Look! A squirrel!”

Every child turned around.

So did the one with the hot dog.

The hot dog slipped out of its bun.

I caught it before it touched the concrete.

An outstanding display of athleticism from an animal who had been considering taking the rest of the day off.

The small human looked down.

“My hot dog disappeared!”

Management came over.

His wife came over.

Three other adults came over.

They searched beneath the chair.

They searched behind the chair.

One man suggested a bird had taken it.

I stared toward the sky.

A bird.

Excellent theory.

I hoped they would investigate it thoroughly.

By one o’clock, I had recovered two hamburger fragments, half a bun, and something that smelled suspiciously like potato salad.

I was having the most successful day of my life.

Then I noticed the squirrels.

Three of them.

One on the fence.

One in the tree.

One beneath the patio chair.

The one on the fence flicked his tail twice.

The one in the tree flicked his tail back.

The one under the chair disappeared.

I narrowed my eyes.

Signals.

Coordinated movement.

An invasion.

I had suspected the squirrels were becoming more organized. Lately, they had stopped trespassing on my seven square feet of concrete one at a time.

Now they were working in teams.

That meant somebody was giving orders.

And then I saw him.

He was standing behind the trash can near the back fence.

Large.

Broad.

A tail with more stripes than a prison uniform.

A dark mask around his eyes, which seemed unnecessarily theatrical for a fellow who was already a criminal.

I knew him immediately.

Mr. Rack.

The Big Boss.

The biggest, baddest raccoon this side of Alaska.

You did not mess with Mr. Rack.

You did not ask Mr. Rack what he was doing in your backyard.

You certainly did not ask him what was in the bag.

His networks had networks.

His squirrels had squirrels.

I was almost certain he had someone working inside the bird population.

And there he stood.

Behind Management’s trash can.

Watching my barbecue.

The one on the fence flicked his tail again.

Mr. Rack barely moved.

He didn’t have to.

When a raccoon is that important, other animals do the tail-flicking for him.

I swallowed.

This was going to take some serious effort.

I might have to get up.

Before I could finalize my security plan, the men began drifting away from the food.

I do not understand men.

There were perfectly good hamburgers sitting on the table, yet they abandoned them to stand beside the Staypoollizer attached to the edge of my enormous water bowl.

One of them pointed at it.

“What’s that thing?”

Management straightened his shoulders.

I recognized the posture.

It was his “I am about to explain something I did” posture.

I had seen it when he fixed the lawn mower by putting gasoline in it.

“Well, boys,” he said, “I finally solved one of the world’s most common problems.”

The men looked at him.

“Keeping a swimming pool full.”

He paused.

They waited.

I waited.

There were four hot dogs on the table and nobody was holding them.

Clearly, the world’s most common problem had not been solved.

Management continued.

“Every day, the pool loses a little water. Evaporation. People swimming. You know how it is. I used to have to drag a garden hose over here and stand around waiting for it to fill.”

Stand around?

That was a fascinating description of the man who had previously told me, “Henry, keep an eye on that hose,” before going inside to watch television.

I am a hound dog.

I do not have a wristwatch.

What exactly was I supposed to do if the pool got too full?

Bark at the faucet?

Dial the authorities?

Send a squirrel?

“I started thinking,” Management said, tapping his forehead, “there has to be a better way.”

One of the men nodded respectfully.

Management was enjoying himself.

“So I got this Staypoollizer. Connected it to the garden hose. Set the water level where I wanted it. Now, when the water drops below that level, it adds water. When the water comes back up, it shuts off.”

“That’s pretty handy,” one of the men said.

“Yep,” Management replied. “Took care of the whole problem.”

He folded his arms.

A man satisfied with his life’s work.

I looked toward Mr. Rack.

He was still standing behind the trash can.

He had probably solved several problems that morning without discussing any of them.

I did not approve of his profession, but I respected his efficiency.

Then Management’s wife stepped onto the patio carrying another plate of hamburgers.

The men stopped talking.

They knew the power this woman held.

Every one of them straightened his posture as though a five-star general had just entered the conversation.

One man set down his beer.

Another quietly pulled his stomach in.

A third removed his sunglasses, although nobody had asked him to.

Management stood at attention.

His wife looked at the Staypoollizer.

Then at him.

“What are y’all talking about?”

“Just telling the boys how I solved our pool-water problem.”

“You mean the thing I found online and ordered?”

“Well, yes,” Management said. “But I handled the installation.”

She nodded.

“Oh, you certainly did.”

Management smiled.

He should have recognized the danger.

“It took you three minutes to screw on the garden hose and slide the water-level adjustment to where you wanted it. No tools. No hassles. Ready to use right out of the box.”

The men remained perfectly still.

They had seen what happened to men who interrupted a commanding officer.

“Well,” Management said, “there was a certain amount of engineering involved.”

“Yes, dear. You turned the hose clockwise.”

One of the men made a noise in his throat.

He disguised it as a cough.

Another stared into his beer as though the answer to life’s mysteries might be written on the bottom.

Management took a long drink.

I was impressed.

She had reduced his greatest engineering achievement to three minutes and a garden hose.

And she hadn’t even raised her voice.

Mr. Rack could have learned a thing or two from this woman.

Come to think of it, I was beginning to wonder whether she was Mr. Rack’s boss.

Unfortunately, I had no time to investigate the chain of command.

The invasion was underway.

The squirrel on the fence had moved three feet closer to the picnic table.

The squirrel in the tree was directly above the potato salad.

The third squirrel was behind the grill.

Mr. Rack remained at the trash can.

Supervising.

I assessed the situation.

The enemy had numbers.

They had high ground.

They had a masked criminal mastermind.

I had experience, exceptional hearing, and a severe shortage of available energy.

There was only one thing to do.

I stood up.

Every joint in my body submitted a written complaint.

I walked four feet toward the barbecue table.

Then I lay down again.

A tactical repositioning.

From here, I could see the grill, the children, the trash can, and a hamburger sitting dangerously close to the edge of a plate.

I had the entire operation covered.

The squirrel behind the grill moved.

I raised one ear.

He stopped.

The squirrel on the fence flicked his tail.

I opened one eye.

He retreated six inches.

Mr. Rack watched from beside the trash can.

I gave him my most intimidating stare.

He began washing his face.

The disrespect was unbelievable.

Then I heard something.

Not a squirrel.

Not a bird.

Not Management explaining the hose connection to a man who had already heard the explanation twice.

A sound from inside the house.

A faint metallic click.

The refrigerator door.

My ears rose.

The refrigerator door was followed by the unmistakable sound of a plastic container being opened.

Cold food.

Possibly cheese.

Possibly leftover chicken.

This was important intelligence.

I briefly considered abandoning the outdoor operation.

But then I heard the unmistakable sound of a small human saying, “I don’t want the rest of this hamburger.”

I remained at my post.

A security officer must make difficult decisions.

At that moment, the squirrel behind the grill broke cover.

He made a dash toward the picnic table.

The squirrel in the tree moved down a branch.

Mr. Rack rose onto his hind legs.

I could see the whole plan unfolding.

A coordinated attack on the barbecue.

The squirrels would distract the humans.

Mr. Rack would seize the trash can.

The bird would take the blame.

An elegant operation.

I almost admired it.

Then the small human with the half-eaten hamburger spotted the squirrel.

“Look! He’s going to steal our food!”

He jumped up.

His chair tipped backward.

His plate tilted.

The hamburger began sliding toward the edge.

I had to make a decision.

Defend the family barbecue from an organized criminal syndicate—

or catch the hamburger.

I am a professional.

I can do both.

I launched myself forward.

The hamburger came down.

My jaws closed around it.

I landed beneath the table with the precision of a highly trained security animal who had not moved that quickly since somebody dropped a biscuit in 2019.

The small human began shouting.

Management turned around.

“Henry!”

I looked up.

My human looked at the empty plate.

Then at me.

Then at the squirrels scattering off the fence.

“Would you look at that!” one of the men said. “Henry chased those squirrels off!”

Management beamed.

“That’s my boy! Keeps an eye on everything around here.”

I accepted the compliment.

A good security officer never explains operational details to civilians.

The squirrels retreated to the trees.

Mr. Rack disappeared behind the fence.

The barbecue was secure.

And I had a hamburger.

An outstanding victory.

Unfortunately, Management’s wife had witnessed the entire operation.

She looked at me.

Then at the small human’s empty plate.

Then at Management.

“Your security dog just stole a hamburger.”

Management waved a hand.

“He was protecting the food from those squirrels.”

She looked at the squirrel-free patio.

Then at me.

I was chewing.

“He certainly was.”

Management nodded.

“Good boy, Henry.”

My tail thumped against the concrete.

Certification.

I had been officially cleared of all wrongdoing.

This was why I kept Management around.

His investigative methods were questionable, but he knew when to recognize a successful employee.

A little later, the men returned to the Staypoollizer.

Management was explaining the adjustment again.

“See, you just slide it to the level you want.”

One of the men reached over and moved his hand toward the adjustment.

Management immediately stopped him.

“Now, don’t mess with that. I’ve already got it set.”

I understood.

A man who had spent three minutes mastering a piece of equipment had every right to protect his life’s work.

The five-star general came back outside.

“Since you’re finished solving the world’s problems,” she said, “could you take the trash out?”

Management looked at the trash can.

Then at the men.

Then at me.

“Henry, keep an eye on things for a minute.”

Of course.

Management could solve the water-level problem, demonstrate his engineering expertise, and give an elaborate speech about his mechanical genius.

But when a criminal mastermind and an organized squirrel syndicate threatened the barbecue, who had to handle it?

Me.

A hound dog who had been awake for nearly forty-five minutes.

And I hadn’t even received my regular supper.

As I settled back onto my seven square feet of concrete, I caught one last glimpse of Mr. Rack peering over the fence.

He stared at me.

I stared back.

He raised one paw.

I raised one ear.

Neither of us moved.

Two professionals.

An understanding had been reached.

Then I heard the five-star general from inside the house.

“Henry! Time to eat!”

I abandoned my post immediately.

Let Mr. Rack have the patio.

Let the squirrels take the trash.

Let Management solve whatever he wanted.

Somebody had just announced supper.

I made it to the kitchen before Management could finish saying, “Good boy.”

And that, as far as I was concerned, was the greatest achievement of the day.

— Henry

Less time watching the hose. More time enjoying the barbecue.

Staypoollizer is an automatic pool water leveler that adds water when the pool drops below your selected level and stops when that level is restored under normal operating conditions.

Compare Staypoollizer Models · Back to According to Henry