Month: December 2025

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Toby and the Year the World Stopped

2020 was a year that changed everything.
For me.
For Stephanie.
For Amira, who was still growing inside her.
And for Toby, who faced the chaos with the soft strength only a dog can offer.

When the first wave of COVID hit Quebec, life turned into a constant blur. I was pulled from one emergency mandate to another, working as an emergency preparedness expert during the largest public health crisis of our time. Overnight, I was appointed as a direct advisor to the chief executive of Urgences santé. It felt like the responsibility of an entire city had landed on my shoulders.

The work never stopped.
Seven days a week.
From six thirty in the morning until midnight.
Every single day.
For months.

Stephanie was very pregnant then. She was carrying new life, carrying the stress of the pandemic, and carrying more of the household than anyone ever should have while expecting. Walking Toby became difficult for her. She needed rest.

And right there, in the middle of all this chaos, Toby stepped up in a way I will never forget.

He became the rhythm that kept me alive.

He allowed me to build a strict ritual around his needs. A ritual that forced me to stand up, move, breathe, go outside, and break away from crisis mode. A ritual that grounded me when everything else felt unstable.

Our days looked exactly like this:

6h30: Operational briefing.
7h30: Toby’s morning walk while I received my communications updates.
8h00: Prepare the executive briefing.
8h15: Present it to the CEO.
9h00: COVID data, partners, emergencies, decisions.
11h00: Toby’s second walk while I briefed directors.
11h50: Steering committee.
13h00: Toby’s afternoon walk while I reviewed new information.
13h30: Quebec Premier’s national briefing.
14h30: Communications summary.
15h00: Clinical oversight.
16h00: Partner follow ups.
16h30: Operational reviews.
17h00: Toby’s third walk while I spoke with the regional medical director.
17h30: More meetings.
18h00: Supper with Stephanie and Toby, usually while I stayed on a call.
18h30: More meetings with Quebec’s Ministry.
22h00: Prepare the next morning briefing.
23h00: Toby’s night walk.
23h30: Send the final briefing.

And then we did it again.

But Toby never lost track of the schedule.
He knew every minute of it.
He kept me accountable.
He kept me moving.

He would poke my leg with his nose the moment we reached the exact time for his walk. A soft reminder. A gentle nudge. A no-excuses signal for me to break away from the laptop and go outside.

He became the heartbeat behind my routine.

And then, in June 2020, Amira arrived.
Our world expanded.
Our exhaustion multiplied.
Our love deepened.

And Toby simply adapted.

He kept the routine.
He kept the timing.
He kept the structure.
But now, he allowed Amira to join in.

It was not a question or a worry.
It was natural to him.
His walks were no longer just for him and me.
They were for his little human too.

If I placed her carefully in her carrier or stroller, Toby walked beside her with a tenderness that felt almost sacred. He accepted her presence instantly, as if the routine had always belonged to the three of us.

It remains one of the most beautiful memories I have from that year.
There was fear everywhere.
Stress everywhere.
Uncertainty everywhere.
But there, on each walk, was a small moment of peace.
A father, his newborn daughter, and the poodle who kept them both grounded.

Toby was the constant in a world that had stopped.
The anchor in a year where time blurred.
The reason I kept moving when everything told me to collapse.

I will never forget what he gave me in 2020.

Classic Toby.
My metronome in the storm.
My partner through crisis.
My reminder that love can pull you through anything.

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The Accidental Poodle Selfie

There is a rule that every dog owner learns eventually.
It is a simple rule.
A universal rule.
A rule created by chaos itself.

Never leave your phone on a sofa that your dog believes belongs to him.
Not even for one minute.
Not even to go to the bathroom.

I learned this the hard way.

Toby had claimed a specific sofa in the living room as his personal throne. The armrest was his favourite spot. It was the perfect height for dramatic lounging. It was ideal for sighing loudly. It allowed him to look offended at anyone who dared walk by.

One day, I placed my phone on the sofa, went to the bathroom for a quick moment, and came back to find Toby standing over the phone like a bouncer checking IDs at the entrance of a nightclub.

He wanted the armrest.
The phone was in his way.
This was unacceptable.

So he did what Toby always did.
He tried to push the offending object away with his paw.

Except Toby was a poodle, not an engineer.
He hit the screen.
Then he hit it again.
And again.
Somehow, in the process, he managed to turn on the camera.
Then he managed to switch to selfie mode.
Then he managed to trigger the shutter.

And that is how Toby accidentally took one of the greatest selfies I have ever seen.

The photo was not even blurry.
It was perfectly framed.
Toby’s face filled the entire screen.
His eyebrows were raised.
His eyes were squinting.
His expression was pure “What is this thing and why is it in my spot.”

A poodle selfie.
A genuine, unfiltered, annoyed poodle selfie.

Poodle 1.
Eddy’s smartphone 0.

I laughed so hard I nearly peed again, this time from shock rather than the original bathroom break.

I still have the picture saved.
It is Toby’s version of a mugshot.
A portrait of a poodle who believed the world should never get between him and his sofa.

Classic Toby.
Annoyed, dramatic, perfect.

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The Day We Adopted a Sheep

When Stephanie and I decided to adopt a dog in December 2018, we imagined welcoming home a graceful, energetic, perfectly proportioned standard poodle.

What we got instead was a sheep.

Toby’s previous owner was a kind older gentleman who loved him deeply. Unfortunately, his work hours had become long and unpredictable. To make sure Toby never felt hungry, he allowed him unlimited access to food. Daytime, nighttime, anytime, Toby could eat whatever he wanted.

And Toby did exactly that.

When his previous owner first sent me a picture offering Toby for adoption, he looked handsome. Elegant. Tall. Noble. Everything a Caniche Royal is supposed to be.

So when Stephanie and I arrived to meet him in person, we expected a poodle.

But the creature who trotted toward us looked like a very gentle, very fluffy, very overweight sheep.
Round belly. Thick legs. Wobbling trot. Soft eyes.
A poodle disguised as a marshmallow.

And I loved him instantly.

I have always struggled with my weight. When I saw Toby, I felt something familiar, something comforting. He was warm, friendly, chubby, gentle, and completely unaware of any of it.

Stephanie took one look at him and said nothing, but her eyes spoke full paragraphs.

We adopted him on the spot.

The plan began immediately. Stephanie became his fitness coach. I became his emotional support. Toby became our very confused but cooperative trainee. We switched him to high quality food in proper portions. We took daily walks. We encouraged playtime. We encouraged healthy habits.

Toby did not understand why his unlimited buffet had disappeared, but he trusted us.
And very slowly, the sheep started transforming back into a poodle.

A few months later, he was slim, healthy, energetic, and proud. His fur sat differently. His gait changed. His eyes sparkled with confidence. He looked like the dog he was meant to be.

But every once in a while, when I saw him curled up on the couch, I remembered the first day we met him. That round, gentle, huggable sheep-dog who stole my heart in a single moment.

Classic Toby.
Soft, sweet, and perfect in every shape.

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Backseat Buddies

Before Amira was born, I drove a huge eight passenger SUV.
The kind of car that families buy when they expect chaos, luggage, strollers, groceries, and several small humans. But in our case, the vehicle had a very different purpose.
It was for Toby.

He claimed the entire second row as his personal throne.
Every seat was his seat.
Every window was his window.
The middle bench became a poodle lounge.

Then Amira arrived in June 2020, and Stephanie and I made what we thought was a very clever plan.

We figured Toby would enjoy the entire third row all to himself.
We imagined him lounging like royalty in the back, surrounded by his toys, blankets, and whatever poodle essentials he required.
Amira, tiny and fragile, would sit safely in the second row in her baby seat.

Everything made sense on paper.

But Toby never followed paper logic.

The moment we tried encouraging him to go into the third row, he looked at us as if we had committed a crime. He refused to move. He refused to budge. He refused to sit in the back like some kind of peasant.

He made his choice very clear.

He was going to sit with Amira.

And that was that.

So the enormous SUV, purchased with all the best intentions, instantly lost an entire row of seating. The third row became storage for Toby’s supplies. Blankets, water bowl, travel bag, toys, emergency leash, more toys, and whatever else he believed he needed.

Meanwhile Toby climbed into Amira’s row and made it his new kingdom.

At first we worried he might crowd her, or disturb her, or distract her.

But something beautiful happened instead.

Toby bonded with her.

He snuggled into her side of the seat.
He curled up next to her baby seat.
He kept her warm with his big fluffy body.
He let her tiny hands reach over and pet him whenever she got bored or restless.

Sometimes she giggled and he wagged his tail.
Sometimes she babbled and he listened like it was important.
Sometimes he fell asleep so loudly that it sounded like a small engine idling beside her.

But she loved it.
And he loved it even more.

There was something incredibly tender about watching them together.
This big, gentle poodle choosing to protect the smallest member of the family.
This newborn child resting peacefully with her furry guardian nearby.
This giant SUV built for eight people, but truly designed for just those two.

Toby would look over at her every few minutes, checking that she was fine.
Amira would reach out her hand, checking that he was still there.
And I drove, looking in the mirror, seeing something I will never forget.

My daughter and my dog, side by side, already in their own little world.

Classic Toby.

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The Winter Wardrobe Struggle

Winter in Quebec is not a season. It is a survival challenge.
Near Mont Saint Hilaire, where Stephanie and I lived, the wind was something else. It did not blow. It attacked. It wrapped around the house like it was trying to repossess it. It made trees bend in ways trees should never bend. It made even the toughest humans think twice before stepping outside.

And in these conditions, even a royal poodle needed winter attire.

Toby was a Caniche Royal through and through. He took pride in his appearance. He took himself very seriously. He did not accept fashion choices lightly. So preparing him for winter outings was always an event.

His winter coat was bright red. Every leg had to go through a separate hole. Then a long velcro strip had to be attached up his belly, with just enough space left for his weiner to remain free for essential business. The setup required precision, patience, and prayer.

Then came the paw gloves. Four little leather boots, each with its own velcro strap that needed to go around his legs. These boots were designed to protect him from the ice, salt, and frostbite that Quebec specializes in.

They were also designed to break humans emotionally.

Dressing Toby for winter was a two person operation.
Stephanie held the coat open.
I guided his legs.
Toby stood stiffly like a disgruntled statue, staring at us with deep judgment.

Putting on the boots was worse. As each paw slid into the glove, Toby lifted the other paws dramatically, as if balancing on stilts. Once all four were on, he refused to move at first. He simply stared at the floor like he had lost all connection to the earth.

And then came the walking.

The dramatic, exaggerated, high-stepping walk that every dog does the first time they wear winter boots. Toby lifted each paw to his chest before setting it down again, as if the ground beneath him was electrified. He looked confused, offended, and betrayed.

Once outside, the wind hit him with full force. The cold air rushed across the fields. Snow swirled in little tornados. The temperature dropped to the kind of cold where your eyelashes freeze.

And Toby, fully dressed in his royal red suit with matching gloves, would trot proudly forward as if this outfit was beneath him but he would tolerate it for now.

He liked to pretend he was above winter gear, but the reality was simple.
Without it, he froze.
Without boots, his paws lifted off the ground faster than I could say hypothermia.
Without the full outfit, he turned around and begged to go back inside.

So he accepted the coat.
He tolerated the boots.
He allowed us to prepare him, even if his dignity suffered in the process.

The photo I will add to this post says it all. Toby standing there in full attire, looking both fashionable and deeply unimpressed, a poodle trapped between survival and pride.

Every winter walk was a challenge for us.
Every winter walk was a compromise for him.
And every winter walk ended the same way: Toby racing back inside the house, shaking off the cold, and curling up somewhere warm with the confidence of a dog who believed he had conquered nature.

In reality, we conquered winter for him.
But he got all the credit.

Classic Toby.

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When Worry Met Love

Some memories stay soft in the heart, even years later.
This is one of them. It still makes me emotional every time I think about it.

When Amira was little and caught a cold or fever, I was usually the one who stayed home with her. My job allowed more flexibility than Stephanie’s, and it gave me the chance to witness moments I will never forget.

What surprised me most during those days was how deeply Toby felt her illness.
He did not just notice it.
He absorbed it.

The moment Amira’s breathing sounded congested or her energy dropped, Toby changed. He paced around her. He nudged her gently. He watched her every move with worry in his eyes. He stayed close as if his presence alone could fix whatever was wrong.

He was never frantic.
He was never loud.
He was simply concerned in the purest way a dog can be concerned.

Amira, in her own little world, noticed it immediately. Even as a toddler she understood his moods. She could read his heart without a single word. When she saw him worried, she became worried too.

She would reach for him.
He would get closer.
And the two of them would settle down together on the couch or the bed, wrapped in a blanket of confusion, comfort, and unconditional love.

I watched it many times.
I watched them hold onto each other without understanding why the other was sad.
Toby would lie beside her with his head on her legs.
Amira would stroke his ears slowly, sometimes even whispering to him in her tiny voice.
He would sigh, she would breathe more calmly, and the two of them created their own little sanctuary of safety.

There is something indescribable about seeing your child and your dog take care of each other. Something fragile and beautiful. Something that stays inside you forever.

Those were the moments when my heart melted.
Not because Amira was sick, but because even in sickness she was surrounded by love.
Toby made sure of it.
He watched over her the way only he could, with gentle eyes, soft breaths, and a loyalty that never wavered.

And Amira offered him comfort right back.
Two beings who did not need language to understand each other.
Two souls connected by something simple and perfect.

Those quiet afternoons, with the house dim and still, felt like the safest place in the world.

Classic Toby.
Loving and worried.
Worried and loving.

I miss those moments more than I can ever explain.