Henry and the Vacation Suitcase
Well, it is happening again.
The square-looking thing with wheels has been exhumed from the garage.
The suitcase.
These things mean trouble.
They always take my humans away.
My very well-trained humans, I might add.
If this interferes with my six meals a day, I am done.
They can find another security agent.
I have squirrels to monitor, property to protect, and a feeding schedule already operating with dangerously little room for error.
This is not the same as when my humans leave for a few hours.
Those trips can be useful.
Sometimes they come home with delicious-smelling fingers.
Oh, the fingers.
Ribs.
Chicken.
Barbecue.
Occasionally something I cannot identify but am prepared to investigate thoroughly.
A dog can learn a great deal about where his humans have been simply by licking their hands.
Humans call this “personal space.”
Dogs call it evidence.
I have trained mine not to resist too much.
It took years.
Positive reinforcement.
Mostly staring.
But the suitcase is different.
The suitcase means they are leaving long enough for somebody to start discussing my feeding instructions.
That is when a dog knows the situation has become serious.
I knew the exact time the suitcase appeared because breakfast had already occurred and second breakfast had not.
There are clocks in the house.
I do not need them.
I have a stomach.
It has never been wrong.
My human rolled the suitcase past the glass door overlooking my big water bowl.
Then he stopped and stared outside.
Humans stare at swimming pools a lot.
I have never understood this.
Water is either there or it is not.
If it is there, drink some.
If it is not there, look at the humans until they fix the situation.
Management prefers a more complicated system.
He went outside.
He stared at the water.
Then he stared at the side of the water.
Then he squinted.
Humans place enormous confidence in squinting.
If the first squint does not solve something, they move six feet and squint again.
Apparently this is research.
Historically, this is when the garden hose invaded my property.
You may remember my property.
Seven square feet of premium concrete beside the big water bowl.
Morning shade.
Excellent drainage.
Direct view of the eastern squirrel corridor.
I have occupied this territory for years.
I pay no taxes.
This is one of the few systems humans have designed correctly.
Before the Staypoollizer arrived, my human would drag the hose directly across my estate.
No permit.
No notice.
No concern for established property rights.
Then he would turn on the water, stare at the pool, squint, walk inside, forget why he had walked inside, remember something unrelated, and eventually say, “I think that’ll be enough.”
This is not a measurement.
This is a prayer with a garden hose attached to it.
Then, sooner or later, another human would say the words that create more speed in an adult man than nearly any known force.
“Did you turn the hose off?”
Silence.
Eyes wider.
Rapid movement.
I have seen my human cross the house faster for those words than for “Dinner is ready.”
Not faster than the sound of a cheese wrapper.
Let us not become ridiculous.
This morning was different.
No hose crossed my concrete.
I raised my head approximately one inch.
For me, this constitutes a formal investigation.
The Staypoollizer was already sitting at the edge of the pool with the hose connected.
My human checked the faucet, checked the connection, watched the water level, and made sure the water stopped when it reached the selected level.
Reasonable.
I approve of humans checking things before leaving.
I once watched one leave the house without his phone and return eleven seconds later looking betrayed by the universe.
He checked the Staypoollizer one more time and went inside.
That was it.
No timer.
No hose across my land.
No “Remind me in thirty minutes.”
An entire category of human confusion had disappeared.
I suspected layoffs.
Then came the neighbor.
I knew he was coming before management did.
Dogs hear things.
Humans think hearing means noticing someone after the doorbell rings.
Amateurs.
I heard his gate.
His shoes on the sidewalk.
His keys.
And, unless I am mistaken, a sandwich being unwrapped somewhere beyond the fence.
I remained focused on the sandwich until my human started talking.
“We’re heading out for a week.”
The neighbor said, “Nice.”
He did not sound like a man who knew what was coming.
In the old days, this conversation always turned into a surprise promotion.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on the pool?”
There would be a pause.
Not long enough to be rude.
Long enough for the man to remember every bad decision that had somehow brought him to this side of the fence.
Then management would explain the hose.
If the water gets low, pull it over.
Turn it on.
Watch it.
Do not let it overflow.
Remember to turn it off.
In under a minute, a man who had walked outside to move a trash can became Temporary Assistant Director of Aquatic Emergencies.
Unpaid.
No benefits.
No snacks.
I would never accept a position under those terms.
Good neighbors apparently do.
This time my human looked at the pool and said, “The water level’s handled. You don’t need to mess with the hose. Just call me if you notice anything unusual.”
The neighbor’s shoulders dropped.
Humans do this when a problem they expected to become theirs remains somebody else’s.
“Perfect,” he said.
He looked younger immediately.
Maybe ten years.
Eleven if he had been especially worried about the hose.
The Staypoollizer had eliminated an entire unpaid government position.
I respect efficiency.
Especially when it happens on somebody else’s shift.
By noon, there were two suitcases by the door.
At 12:22, management began discussing my food.
I was instantly available for consultation.
A young lady I knew came through the door carrying a bag.
Management called her my caretaker.
I recognized the situation immediately.
Rookie.
She thought she had been assigned to take care of me.
That was adorable.
She had been assigned to me for training.
Humans require patient instruction.
You cannot simply hand a rookie a dog and expect professional results.
Back rubs come first.
Rookies tend to begin with pats on the head.
This is enthusiasm without education.
I stepped forward and presented the correct section of back.
She scratched too high.
I moved four inches.
She followed.
Good.
I leaned left.
She adjusted.
Better.
Eventually she found the exact location between my shoulders management already knows about.
I rewarded her by remaining completely still and allowing her to continue.
Positive reinforcement is important when training humans.
Belly rubs are advanced work.
You do not roll over all at once.
That teaches them nothing.
You roll halfway.
Pause.
Look directly at the human.
Expose the work area.
Wait for comprehension.
If the human stops too soon, place one paw gently on the hand.
Do not be aggressive.
The objective is correction, not discouragement.
She resumed immediately.
Promising rookie.
Then she said one of the most magnificent words ever spoken.
“Ball?”
I was on my feet before the second L had cleared her mouth.
There are moments when dignity must yield to duty.
Humans call this playing fetch.
Another misunderstanding we have chosen not to correct.
They believe they throw the ball and the dog retrieves it.
What actually happens is that we convince a human to throw the same object repeatedly for no payment whatsoever.
Sometimes we bring it back.
This keeps them motivated.
If you return it every time, they become overconfident.
Training requires balance.
After three throws, I lay down with the ball.
Rookie looked confused.
Lesson one: I decide when the program ends.
She was learning quickly.
Then there are snacks.
I hesitate to reveal trade secrets, but dogs may have conducted the most successful training program in the history of the human species.
Humans believe they train us with treats.
Sit.
Snack.
Stay.
Snack.
Come.
Snack.
Shake.
Snack.
Then they stand around telling other humans how well dog training is going while continuing to hand us food.
Silly humans.
The brilliance is that we allow them to believe this.
Occasionally they even say, “Good boy.”
I appreciate a favorable performance review after compensation has already been issued.
Never correct a human who pays you to do something you were probably going to do anyway.
Rookie had food instructions, walking instructions, emergency numbers, and a schedule that contained nowhere near enough food.
I reviewed it twice.
Same problem both times.
She had no pool-hose instructions.
That department had been eliminated.
More importantly, she understood cheese.
I promoted her to Acting Director of Meal Distribution and Junior Back-Rub Technician.
She was not informed.
Most of my employees do not know they work for me.
It prevents salary negotiations.
My humans finally left.
I watched the vehicle disappear down the driveway.
I did not panic.
I am an experienced hound.
Humans leave.
Humans return.
Usually carrying dirty clothes, receipts, and stories they insist on telling from the beginning.
I understand travel.
Still, I conducted a perimeter check from my concrete.
That is when I saw him.
Squirrel.
Top of the fence.
Watching the driveway.
Not eating.
Not moving.
Just watching.
I have been in security too long to ignore that kind of behavior.
People say squirrels are harmless.
People also say, “I’ll just have one chip.”
Humans are unreliable witnesses.
The squirrel disappeared the moment I looked at him.
Coincidence?
That is exactly what a squirrel would want you to think.
The first evening with Rookie went reasonably well.
At 5:57, I heard the refrigerator open.
At 5:57 and two seconds, I heard the cheese drawer.
At 5:57 and three seconds, I was in the kitchen.
Rookie stared at me.
“You were asleep outside.”
Correct.
She seemed confused.
This was a training opportunity.
I stared at the cheese.
She stared at me.
I stared harder.
She gave me a piece.
Excellent progress.
“Good boy,” she said.
Official confirmation that I had handled the situation correctly.
The next morning, breakfast was served two minutes late.
I did not overreact.
I merely sat directly in front of her and maintained eye contact until she understood the seriousness of the incident.
By lunch, she had improved.
By dinner, she was almost employable.
The squirrels, however, were becoming reckless.
One crossed the fence at 4:06.
I issued a stare.
He stopped.
I raised one ear.
Professional warning.
He continued.
I raised the ear higher.
Escalation.
He sat down and ate something while looking directly at me.
I considered standing.
He left.
I marked the incident resolved.
Some security work is invisible to civilians.
On the second afternoon, the sun began stealing water from the pool again.
The sun does this slowly enough that nobody has ever arrested it.
Wind takes some too.
People climb out wearing some.
Splashing throws some onto my concrete.
I personally remove a modest quantity from time to time.
Service fee.
Late that afternoon I heard water moving.
I opened one eye.
The pool level had dropped below where management had set it.
The Staypoollizer started adding water.
Nobody dragged a hose across my property.
Nobody set a timer.
Nobody squinted.
Nobody asked me anything.
This is my preferred management style.
I watched until the water returned to the selected level and the flow stopped.
Fourteen seconds.
That is an aggressive amount of supervision for me.
Then I went back to sleep.
I do not praise equipment for doing its job.
I apply the same policy to refrigerators.
A few minutes later, the neighbor came to the fence.
He looked at the pool.
He looked at the hose.
The hose stayed where it was.
So did he.
For several seconds they enjoyed an excellent working relationship.
Then he nodded once and went back inside.
He had successfully inspected the pool without gaining a single new responsibility.
I admired that.
It is a rare skill.
The week developed a rhythm.
Rookie fed me.
I corrected Rookie.
Rookie rubbed my back.
I corrected Rookie less.
She attempted ball twice more.
Her throwing arm needed work, but I admired the enthusiasm.
One afternoon she threw the ball into a flower bed.
I looked at the ball.
Then at her.
Then back at the ball.
She retrieved it herself.
Major breakthrough.
By day four, I had trained a human to fetch.
I was proud of her.
I did not say so.
Praise must be managed carefully.
At 6:01 that evening she said, “It’s time to eat.”
There are sentences that change a room.
That is one of them.
I was already standing before she finished the word “eat.”
She laughed.
Humans are easily impressed by hearing.
They whisper “bath” from two rooms away and are shocked when we disappear.
They open a cheese wrapper behind a closed door and are shocked when we appear.
The problem is not our hearing.
The problem is that humans keep announcing important information and expecting privacy.
By the fifth day, I noticed something troubling.
The squirrels knew management was gone.
I cannot prove how.
Yet.
But their confidence had increased.
Two of them met near the oak tree at 9:14.
One came from the east fence.
One from the roof line.
They sat three feet apart.
No chasing.
No fighting.
No obvious reason to be there.
A meeting.
I watched from my concrete.
One looked toward the pool.
The other looked toward me.
Then both left in different directions.
Textbook operation.
Rookie said, “Henry, they’re just squirrels.”
I looked at her.
Still a rookie.
That evening she gave me a snack for sitting.
I accepted it because training must continue even during an active investigation.
On the seventh day, I heard the vehicle before Rookie did.
Of course I did.
The engine turned onto our road.
Thirty-three seconds later Rookie looked toward the driveway.
I did not say anything.
No need to embarrass junior personnel.
My humans came through the door.
I maintained the dignified composure expected of a senior security professional.
There may have been tail movement.
Unconfirmed.
There may have been a sound.
The witness is biased.
There may also have been approximately three seconds during which all four feet left the floor.
I reject the allegation.
Management inspected me.
Then one of them asked the usual question.
“Were you a good boy?”
Rookie said, “He was such a good boy.”
Case closed.
Two independent human certifications.
I have no idea why they keep asking.
My human looked through the glass door at the pool.
He looked at the water level.
He looked at the Staypoollizer.
Then he did something remarkable.
Nothing.
No hose.
No filling.
No emergency.
No vacation-homecoming pool ceremony.
The water was where it belonged.
About then the neighbor appeared by the fence.
“Everything good?” my human asked.
“Didn’t touch the hose once,” he said.
He sounded proud.
As he should.
The man had successfully done almost nothing for seven straight days.
Some of my finest work follows the same method.
Then my human picked up my leash.
I sat up.
This was concerning.
“Come on, Henry. Let’s take a walk.”
A walk.
At a time previously reserved for humans staring at pool water.
I had underestimated the consequences of competent management.
We headed down the road.
I do not call this exercise.
Exercise is movement humans perform after intentionally driving somewhere to perform movement.
Dogs do not participate in that kind of accounting.
This was reconnaissance.
Neighborhood perimeter expansion.
Three houses down, the Labrador was behind his fence.
We exchanged a professional nod.
His human was in the yard fighting a garden hose.
The hose had wrapped around one ankle.
The human was standing on another section of it while trying to pull it free.
The Labrador looked at his human.
Then at my human.
Then at me.
No words were necessary.
There are difficult moments in every professional relationship.
Farther down, I found the oak tree.
The meeting place.
Two squirrels were there.
One froze when it saw me.
The other disappeared behind the trunk.
I made sure both understood that my jurisdiction had expanded.
My human kept walking.
I allowed it.
We covered nearly twenty minutes of territory.
By the time we returned, my security district had increased approximately six hundred percent.
Without raising taxes.
The pool was still fine.
My concrete was dry.
Management had gone on vacation, come home, and somehow had time left over for important work.
Me.
I do not praise humans recklessly.
It encourages them.
But I will admit they are becoming easier to manage.
The suitcase no longer concerns me as much as it once did.
Provided the food department remains properly staffed.
Provided Rookie continues her training.
Provided management remembers that “ball” is not a word to be used casually.
And provided somebody deals with the squirrel situation.
I was considering all this from my concrete when I heard a faint mechanical hum from the deep end.
Something was crawling across the bottom of my water bowl.
Slowly.
Quietly.
A machine.
I had seen it before, of course.
But this time something was different.
There was a squirrel on the fence.
Watching it.
Watching me.
Watching it again.
Then he ran.
I opened both eyes.
The pool machine continued crawling.
I do not yet have proof.
But I know a coordinated operation when I see one.
Management calls it a robotic pool cleaner.
I call it exactly what a squirrel would want humans to call it.
This matter is under investigation.
Ball can wait.
Probably.
— Henry
One less vacation favor to ask. Less time watching the hose.
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. Before leaving it unattended, confirm the system is adjusted correctly and shuts off at the selected level.