Month: February 2026

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Teeth

There is a concept every animal owner understands.

It is called “teeth.”

Not aggression.
Not snarling.
Not drama.

Just… teeth.

That tiny little moment when your pet stretches, yawns, relaxes, or simply exists in a way that allows one small canine to peek out from under the lip. Completely accidental. Completely harmless. Completely adorable.

Toby was no exception.

He would stretch and suddenly, there it was.
A small white fang making a surprise appearance.

He would yawn and one tooth would refuse to fully retreat.

He would relax on the couch and somehow, for no logical reason, a single canine would stick out just enough to make him look mildly suspicious.

The funniest part?

He genuinely seemed to believe no one noticed.

There is a photo I took that captures this perfectly. Toby sitting calmly, almost smiling, clearly attempting to look composed and dignified. His lips relaxed. His expression soft.

And right there.

The tooth.

Just slightly exposed.
Just enough to ruin the illusion.

It gave him a permanently mischievous look. Like he had a secret. Like he was about to say something inappropriate at a dinner party.

Whenever I spotted it, I would announce it.

“Teeth.”

Toby would blink slowly, pretending nothing was happening.

And then, because I could not resist, I would reach over and gently touch the little exposed canine.

The reaction was immediate.

A quick lip adjustment.
A subtle head movement.
A look of complete and utter dismay.

The message was clear.
“How dare you.”

He would shift his mouth, tuck the tooth back in, and stare at me with betrayed dignity. As if I had just violated an unspoken agreement between us.

But of course, it would happen again.

Another stretch.
Another yawn.
Another rebellious little fang making its appearance.

And I would point.

“Teeth.”

Classic Toby.
Trying to look refined.
Undone by one tiny canine.

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The Balkan Grandma Incident

Every dog owner has that moment.

That moment where you look at your dog and think,
“This would be hilarious with a small accessory.”

In our case, it was a bandana.

Not around the neck.
That would have been reasonable.
No.

We gently tied it over Toby’s head.

Just for a picture.
Just for a second.
Just to see.

And that is when we discovered something important.

Toby had standards.

The bandana sat perfectly. Tied under his chin, framing his face in a way that, for reasons I still cannot explain, immediately gave off strong Eastern European village grandma vibes.

Not sweet grandma.

I mean intense grandma.

The kind who supervises from a balcony. The kind who judges your posture. The kind who has very strong opinions about how things should be done.

Stephanie and I burst out laughing.

Toby did not.

The moment the fabric touched his head, his expression shifted. He froze. His eyes narrowed slightly. His whole face communicated a single message.

This is unacceptable.

Then came the coughing.

Not a gentle cough.
An aggressive, deliberate cough.

The kind of cough that says, “There is clearly something lodged here and I demand its immediate removal.”

He coughed once.
Twice.
Looked at us.
Coughed again.

The message was clear. He was attempting to medically justify the removal of this indignity.

I managed to snap the photo at exactly the right moment. And it is to die for. Toby, sitting perfectly still, bandana tied neatly, eyes filled with betrayal, mid aggressive cough. A poodle who had clearly not approved this casting decision.

The second we untied it, he shook his head violently, as if cleansing himself of the entire experience.

Balance restored.
Identity reclaimed.

We never attempted headwear again.

Some dogs tolerate costumes.
Some dogs enjoy being dressed up.

Toby allowed many things in life.

But he would not go down in history as someone’s Balkan grandma.

Classic Toby.
Patient.
But deeply opposed to head accessories.

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The Princess of Public Safety

When I became EMS Chief in Côte Saint Luc, Toby naturally became the actual Chief.

But every Chief needs a morning routine.

And Toby’s routine started with Una.

Every morning, without fail, Toby would make his way toward the front office. Not casually. Not by accident. Deliberately. With purpose. With the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

He was not there to review reports.
He was not there to coordinate operations.
He was there for breakfast.

Una loved Toby. And Toby loved Una. There was a mutual understanding between them. A gentle affection that turned into one of the most adorable workplace rituals I have ever witnessed.

Now to be fair, Una did not always hand feed him. Toby had a bowl like a normal dog. He was perfectly capable of eating on his own.

But the station was busy. Phones ringing. Medics walking in and out. Radios chirping. Conversations happening everywhere. Sometimes Toby would get distracted by the activity and forget to focus on his food.

And that is when Una would step in.

She would sit near him, pick up one of his large nuggets, and gently offer it to him by hand to help him “refocus.” Not as indulgence. Not as permanent protocol. Just as a little encouragement when the world felt too interesting.

Toby would accept the nugget with exaggerated delicacy. Slow. Gentle. Intent. As if evaluating the culinary standards of the Côte Saint Luc EMS breakfast program.

It was impossible not to laugh.

There he was, a black standard poodle, sitting in the administrative office, being encouraged to eat like a visiting dignitary who needed personal attention during his meal.

Staff would walk by and shake their heads.

“Is he being hand fed again?”

Sometimes.

Only when necessary.

Only when distracted.

But Toby remembered.

And that is where the problem began.

Because after a full day of being gently encouraged to eat at work, Toby would come home.

Stephanie or I would place his bowl down. Proper portion. Balanced. Responsible.

Toby would look at it.

Then look at us.

Then look back at the bowl.

Then back at us again.

Those eyes.

The eyes of expectation.

The subtle tilt of the head that clearly said,
“I believe the service model has changed.”

He would sit and wait.

Not dramatically. Not aggressively. Just patiently. As if we had temporarily forgotten the correct feeding procedure.

I would look back at him with the most exaggerated expression I could manage.

“Absolutely not.”

Dude. No way.

You are a dog.

Sometimes he would try to hold out. A quiet protest. A hunger strike in hopes that standards would improve.

With me, it almost never worked.

With Stephanie… occasionally.

Just enough to reinforce his belief that the strategy was viable.

And so he tried.
Regularly.

Work Toby was gently assisted when distracted.

Home Toby attempted to renegotiate the terms of service.

Classic Toby.
Princess at headquarters.
Union representative at home.
Always testing the boundaries of royal privilege.