Month: December 2025

Every dog has an enemy.

For some, it is the mail carrier.
For others, it is vacuum cleaners.
For Toby, it was squirrels.

Specifically, urban squirrels. The confident ones. The ones who knew exactly what they were doing. The ones who dared to exist within his line of sight.

Living near the Mont Saint Hilaire train station meant squirrels were everywhere. Running across sidewalks. Climbing trees. Sitting on fences like they owned the place. To Toby, this was unacceptable.

From the moment he spotted one, his entire demeanor changed.

His posture stiffened.
His head tilted slightly forward.
His eyes locked on target.

This was no longer casual observation.
This was a situation.

He did not bark immediately. That would have been beneath him. Instead, he produced a low, offended sound from deep in his chest. A warning. A notice of presence. A formal announcement that rules existed here.

Sometimes the squirrel stopped.
Sometimes it stared back.
Sometimes it flicked its tail.

That tail flick was personal.

Toby would lean forward, muscles tight, clearly debating whether this was the day he would finally handle the squirrel problem once and for all. He never moved beyond the boundary of reason, but his disappointment was visible.

On walks, squirrels became his main distraction. He could ignore cars. He could ignore people. He could tolerate dogs. But a squirrel crossing the sidewalk? Unacceptable.

He would freeze mid walk, mid step, mid sniff. The leash would go taut. His attention fully consumed by the audacity of a small rodent existing freely.

Sometimes the squirrel would climb a tree and sit just high enough to be safe. That was the worst outcome. Toby would stand there, staring upward, convinced that if he waited long enough, justice would prevail.

It never did.

From the balcony, the situation escalated. The higher vantage point gave Toby the illusion of authority. Squirrels below became targets of intense supervision. Every movement tracked. Every pause logged. Every glance returned with judgment.

Toby never forgot a squirrel.
He remembered routes.
He remembered patterns.
He remembered repeat offenders.

And yet, despite all his vigilance, squirrels remained undefeated.

Still, Toby took his role seriously. Someone had to enforce the rules. Someone had to make sure the squirrels knew they were being watched.

And even if they did not care, Toby did.

Classic Toby.
Chief Squirrel Compliance Officer.
Zero victories.
Unwavering dedication.

Every dog has a toy phase.
Toby had an obsession.

For reasons no one will ever fully understand, Toby developed an intense, lifelong passion for squeaky toys shaped like salamanders or dinosaurs. Not balls. Not ropes. Not plush animals.
Only long, weird, prehistoric creatures that screamed when bitten.

Once he chose one, that was it.
The toy became part of him.

He played with them constantly.
He slept next to them.
He guarded them.
And most importantly, he brought them everywhere.

And no, this was never suggested.
We did not hand him the toy before walks.
We did not encourage it for laughs.
We did not stage anything.

Toby decided, entirely on his own, that dinosaurs belonged outside.

So there we were, walking through the neighbourhood, Toby proudly trotting along with a bright green squeaky dinosaur dangling from his mouth. People stopped us constantly.

They laughed.
They pointed.
They melted.
They asked questions.

“Is that his toy?”
“Does he always do that?”
“That is the cutest thing I have ever seen.”

Toby soaked it all in.
Every smile.
Every laugh.
Every bit of attention.

And he never let go of the dinosaur.
Not even to pee.

Yes.
He peed while holding the dinosaur.
Focused.
Professional.
Committed.

Sometimes I genuinely wondered if he had figured out the fastest possible way to become the center of attention in public spaces. A large black poodle carrying a squeaky dinosaur is apparently a winning formula.

But the real performances happened at home.

After walks, Toby did not simply relax.
He performed.

He squeaked those toys like his life depended on it. As fast as possible. As loud as possible. With no rhythm and no mercy. A true one poodle orchestra.

Professionals say dogs squeak toys to release stress or express playfulness.

I do not believe that.

I believe Toby was a strategic menace.

He always waited.
Until the movie got serious.
Until the plot thickened.
Until everyone stopped talking.

Then the squeaking began.

And during COVID, he reached peak chaos.

One day, I was on an extremely important phone conference with Quebec Provincial Public Health officials. We were discussing emergency measures. Serious decisions. High stakes. Professional voices.

And right on cue, Toby chose that exact moment to express his musical talent.

Squeak.
Squeak squeak.
SQUEAK.

Loud.
Relentless.
Unstoppable.

I muted myself.
I apologized.
I tried to grab the dinosaur.

Toby clamped down harder.

I had to unmute and explain, with a straight face, that my poodle had decided to perform live background music during a public health crisis.

Somehow, people laughed.
Somehow, the world did not end.
And Toby looked very proud of himself.

Classic Toby.
A prehistoric toy.
Perfect timing.
Zero shame.

Any dog owner will tell you that dogs sleep in strange positions.
But Toby did not just sleep strangely.
Toby turned sleeping into an Olympic performance.

He had a repertoire.
A full catalog of poses.
A menu of shapes no living creature should be able to achieve.

There was the Couch Potato, where he sprawled across every cushion like he paid rent for the entire sofa.

There was the Sirloin Steak, where he would lie completely flat with his limbs tucked in so tightly he looked like something ready to be grilled.

There was the Triangle, an impressive feat where he managed to fold himself into three sharp angles and still fall asleep instantly.

And then there were the unnamed poses.
The ones that defied science.
The ones that made Stephanie and I look at each other and say,
“How is this even physically possible?”

Toby somehow believed he was the only one living in the house.
He would fling himself into new positions without warning, as if gravity was optional for him. Sometimes the shift was so violent that cushions flew, blankets exploded into the air, and the entire couch shook like it had experienced a minor earthquake.

He snored.
He grumbled.
He groaned like an old man getting out of a chair.
He sighed dramatically.
He sneezed mid-roll.
He even coughed himself awake because his stretching routine was apparently too intense for his own lungs.

Watching him sleep was like watching a theatre production called “One Poodle. Infinite Shapes. Zero Awareness.”

My personal favorite was when he would lie completely upside down, paws straight up in the air, mouth slightly open, tongue hanging out, looking like a creature who had accepted defeat in life. And then, moments later, he would spring into a different position as if a director had yelled “Pose change!”

Every shift was accompanied by sound effects.
Every pose came with personality.
Every nap turned into a performance.

Some dogs rest quietly.
Some dogs snuggle politely.

Toby?
He auditioned for Cirque du Soleil in his sleep.

Classic Toby.
Turning simple naps into unforgettable comedy.

Poodles are supposed to be water dogs.
They are literally bred for it.
They have webbed paws, strong legs, proud posture and the confidence of Olympic divers.
That is the legend.

And then there was Toby.

Toby and water had a relationship best described as two extremely cynical friends who barely tolerate each other. He was curious enough to sniff it, suspicious enough to hesitate, and delusional enough to believe he could interact with water without actually entering it.

Yes, Toby had webbed paws.
No, Toby did not believe in using them.

Even with a flotation device, which is an entire story of humiliation and drama on its own, Toby treated lakes and rivers like they were moral tests he did not consent to.

Whenever I threw him a ball or a stick to fetch, things went well until the object betrayed him by landing in the water. The moment that happened, Toby would freeze at the shoreline and look at me with the most accusatory expression a dog has ever produced.

Not fear.
Not confusion.
Pure betrayal.

His eyes said, very clearly,
“Are you fucking kidding me right now.”

He would stare at the floating object, then stare back at me, then stare at the water again, as if waiting for someone to come and fix this crime against poodle dignity.

Then, because he was delicate and royal, he attempted something extraordinary.

He tried to retrieve the item without touching the water.
At all.

He leaned forward.
He stretched his neck.
He reached his paw.
He braced himself dramatically.
He contorted his body like he was performing interpretive dance.
He did anything and everything except enter the water he was born to swim in.

If the stick floated just out of reach, Toby discovered his signature move.
He would bend his back in a perfect upward arch, trying to keep his belly impossibly far from the water. The result was a poodle shaped like a terrified question mark, desperately attempting to perform a rescue mission without compromising his comfort.

And when the inevitable happened, and he realized he needed to go in, he stepped into the water like a Victorian child touching something mildly unpleasant. One paw at a time. Holding his breath. Bracing for doom.

His belly was enemy territory.
If water reached it, he reacted like he had been personally wronged by nature.

But he fetched the ball.
Eventually.
Once the betrayal settled.

And then he came back with the expression of someone who had survived a major life event and was expecting applause for his bravery.

Classic Toby.
A water dog in theory.
A drama king in practice.
But loved, always loved.