The Sulk

One of Toby’s most remarkable talents was his ability to know exactly when his enthusiasm had gotten the better of him. Not before, mind you. During the event, he was always fully committed to his decision making. It was only afterward, once the excitement had faded and he had a chance to evaluate the expression on your face, that he would begin to suspect perhaps things had not unfolded entirely according to plan.

This particular incident happened during a walk, which was already a high risk environment whenever squirrels were involved.

As I have mentioned before, Toby took squirrel surveillance very seriously. He viewed them less as woodland creatures and more as repeat offenders who somehow continued to evade justice. Every squirrel sighting represented a potential enforcement action, and Toby approached those responsibilities with the dedication of someone who had absolutely no authority whatsoever.

On this particular day, Toby had finished his business and I was crouched down behind him carrying out one of the less glamorous responsibilities of dog ownership. Bag in hand, attention focused elsewhere, I was collecting the evidence and preparing to continue our walk.

What happened next occurred so quickly that I never actually saw the squirrel.

One moment I was minding my own business. The next, approximately seventy pounds of black poodle launched itself in the opposite direction with the force and determination of a cruise missile.

The leash snapped tight.

My arm followed.

My balance immediately began negotiating its resignation.

For one brief and terrifying moment, I found myself performing what can only be described as an interpretive dance routine while holding a warm bag of dog poop. There was stumbling. There was windmilling. There was a sincere concern that I was about to discover exactly how difficult it is to remove fresh poodle poop from a winter jacket.

By some miracle, I managed to stay upright.

The squirrel escaped.

Toby was disappointed.

I was not amused.

The rest of the walk continued under a cloud of mutual understanding.

Not because I yelled. I didn’t.

Not because Toby was afraid of being punished. He wasn’t.

But somewhere during the walk home, he looked up at me and realized that nearly dragging your human face first into your own poop over a squirrel might not qualify as exemplary conduct.

When we got home, Toby immediately shifted strategies.

Rather than reflecting on his choices, he decided to become the victim.

The picture from that evening remains one of my favorites because it perfectly captures the performance that followed. Toby positioned himself a short distance away and refused to look directly at me. Not dramatically. Not theatrically. Just enough to communicate that he was deeply hurt by the way events had unfolded.

The expression on his face was extraordinary.

Not guilt.

Certainly not accountability.

No, this was the face of a dog who felt he had been profoundly misunderstood.