The Frost Beard Incident

One of the things Toby never fully accepted was that winter applied to him too.

Now, if you’ve read the story about the winter coat, the gloves, and the extensive diplomatic negotiations required to get His Majesty dressed before leaving the house, you’ll already know that Toby viewed Quebec winters as a personal inconvenience. Not a danger. Not a challenge. Simply an inconvenience that someone else should probably solve.

The problem was that Toby also possessed the memory span of a goldfish whenever cold weather was involved.

Every single winter, he would act shocked that it was cold outside. Every snowfall was apparently his first snowfall. Every cold snap was an unexpected betrayal. Every gust of wind was treated as new information.

January 16, 2022 was one of those nights.

It was late. The kind of late where most reasonable people have already decided that whatever remains to be done can wait until tomorrow. The temperature outside was ridiculous. Not “it’s chilly, bring a jacket” ridiculous. Proper Quebec ridiculous. The kind of cold that makes you question every life choice that led you to opening the front door.

Naturally, that was the exact moment Toby decided he needed to go outside.

Urgently.

As every dog owner knows, dogs possess a remarkable ability to schedule bathroom breaks with military precision. They can sleep peacefully through beautiful sunny afternoons and somehow discover an overwhelming need to relieve themselves during snowstorms, freezing rain, and temperatures usually associated with Antarctic research stations.

So out we went.

The snow crunched beneath our feet with that distinctive squeak that only happens when it’s truly cold. The air felt sharp. Even breathing required commitment. I was bundled up in enough winter gear to survive an expedition.

Toby, meanwhile, appeared perfectly content.

For a while.

We completed our walk and headed home. Nothing seemed unusual until we stepped inside and I finally got a proper look at him.

I immediately burst out laughing.

His face was frozen.

Not metaphorically.

Literally frozen.

Both sides of his nose were covered in frost, and his magnificent poodle beard had transformed into what looked like a collection of tiny icicles hanging beneath his chin. Every strand of facial hair had accumulated moisture during the walk, and that moisture had promptly decided to become part of the Canadian winter landscape.

The result was spectacular.

Toby looked like an elderly explorer who had just returned from crossing the Arctic. He looked like a Yukon gold prospector. He looked like someone who had spent three months searching for a lost expedition and had finally made it home.

And the best part was that he seemed completely unaware of how ridiculous he looked.

The picture from that night remains one of my favorites. There sits Toby, staring calmly at the camera, his entire beard crystallized by frost, his nose decorated with ice, looking profoundly unimpressed by the fact that everyone around him is laughing.

His expression seemed to say that this was all perfectly normal and that perhaps we should stop making such a fuss about it.

What makes me laugh even more now is that this was entirely avoidable.

I had warned him.

Stephanie had warned him.

The weather forecast had warned him.

The laws of physics had warned him.

But Toby wanted his walk.

And Toby got his walk.

Along with a complimentary frost beard.

The truly remarkable part is that he learned absolutely nothing from the experience. A few days later, when the temperature dropped again, he was back at the door asking to go outside with the exact same confidence and enthusiasm.

No lessons learned.

No self-reflection.

No acknowledgment that his face had briefly become a weather phenomenon.

Just Toby.
Classic Toby.

Proof that a poodle can survive a Quebec winter, provided he is willing to become part snowman in the process.