Adventures

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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.

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Vacationing With Royalty

I am on vacation right now, and as always, I cannot help comparing it to vacations with Toby. Travelling now feels simple. Travelling with Toby never was.

Stephanie and I used to joke that we did not plan our vacations.
We planned Toby’s vacations.

Everything had to be dog friendly.
Everything had to be comfortable for him.
Everything had to fit his needs and his royal expectations.
Because in Toby’s mind, he was a Caniche Royal, and royalty did not compromise.

Hotels were complicated.
Restaurants were limited.
Activities were restricted.
Even the car ride had to reach specific Toby standards of comfort.

Vacations were not cheap.
They were not simple.
They were definitely not without adventures.

So we always ended up in the same kind of place.
A chalet.
Somewhere remote in Quebec.
Surrounded by nature.
Isolated.
Quiet.
Perfect for humans who wanted to rest.

Except we never actually rested.

The idea was to disconnect and recharge. The reality was that Toby had his own plans. Every new sound, every new scent, every blade of grass, every pine tree and every passing animal was a grand opportunity for excitement.

Toby explored every inch of the chalet grounds. He sniffed every corner, inspected every log, and monitored the forest like a very enthusiastic park ranger. He barked at birds. He stared at squirrels. He trotted around with the confidence of someone who believed he owned the land.

Inside, he rearranged himself on every sofa, carpet, and bed he could find. He acted as if the chalet had been reserved solely for him. And in a way, it had.

Stephanie and I always went with the hope of relaxing.
Toby always went with the goal of living his best life.

Vacations for us became long walks, early wake-ups, spontaneous emergency trips to pet stores, constant supervision, and endless laughter. Whatever peaceful, romantic, restful getaway we imagined never happened. But something even better did.

Toby had a blast.

He loved the change of scenery.
He loved the new smells.
He loved the freedom.
He loved having both of us with him, together, in a place that felt like an adventure.

Looking back now, those trips were chaotic and expensive, but they are some of my favourite memories. We did not recharge the way we planned. We recharged in the way Toby decided.

And honestly, that was enough.

Classic Toby.

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The Snow Addict

Some dogs enjoy snow.
Toby did not enjoy it. Toby worshipped it.

Whenever the first snowfall arrived, most people in Quebec groaned. Stephanie sighed. I mentally prepared for shoveling. The entire population braced for winter.

But Toby?
Toby saw snow and immediately lost his mind.

He did not just want to play in it. He wanted to merge with it.
He wanted to become one with the frozen universe.
He believed that if he ate enough snow, he would achieve some sort of spiritual transformation.

The moment his paws touched the fresh powder, he turned into a creature of pure joy. He jumped into it. He buried his face in it. He dove, rolled, bounced, climbed, flopped, snorted and inhaled snow like it was premium imported sugar.

And then came his true passion.
The eating.

Toby ate snow with the commitment of an Olympian.
One flake at a time.
Then entire mouthfuls.
Then entire chunks.
He chased falling flakes with surgical precision.
He tried to catch all of them, as if snow was raining down specifically for him.

And as he ate it, he felt proud.
As if he was accomplishing something important.
As if he could actually fit an entire snowfall inside his poodle stomach.

The problem was that snow melts.
And melted snow turns into water.
And Toby was inhaling gallons of it without understanding the consequences.

After a good snow-eating session, the real fun began.

He needed to pee.
Not once.
Not twice.

Ten to fifteen times.

Every twenty minutes he would stare at us with panic in his eyes, as if saying, “It is time again and I cannot hold it.”
Out we went.
Again.
And again.
And again.

Sometimes Stephanie and I stood by the door in our winter coats, exhausted, while Toby happily relieved himself for what felt like the fiftieth time.

And because both of us worked in medical fields, we immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.

“Is he dissolving his electrolytes?”
“Is he going to get water intoxication?”
“This is not normal. Please stop eating snow.”
“Toby, you are going to make yourself sick.”

Toby heard none of it.
He did not acknowledge science.
He did not acknowledge human medical logic.
He acknowledged snow and nothing else.

He went right back to eating it with the enthusiasm of a dog who had never seen food in his life. His entire black face turned white and crystallized from the frost. Ice clung to his fur. Snow covered every part of him. He looked like a half poodle, half snowman creature sent from the Arctic.

He was freezing.
He was soaked.
He was happy.

Toby did not fear winter.
Toby became winter.

Classic Toby.

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Caniche Cleaning Services

Every family has its own little expressions, the kind that belong only to the people who lived together.
One of ours was “Caniche Cleaning Services.”

Toby took this title very seriously.

Whenever food fell on the floor, Stephanie and I did not bend down to pick it up. We summoned the professional. All it took was a gentle call into the air.

“Caniche Cleaning Services.”

And from wherever he was in the house, Toby appeared like a tiny culinary superhero.
He arrived with purpose in his steps.
His nose twitched like a radar system.
His eyes sparkled with the thrill of opportunity.

This was his calling.

Before Amira was born, Caniche Cleaning Services mainly handled adult spills. A dropped piece of chicken. A crumb of bread. Something that rolled under the table. Toby would inspect the site, clean everything with astonishing precision, then look up for a performance review.

“Is this acceptable?”
His face asked the question every time.

But when Amira arrived in 2020, Toby’s business expanded overnight.
Amira was tiny, adorable, and extremely messy.

She dropped everything.
Pasta spirals.
Rice grains.
Vegetable bits.
Crackers that somehow exploded on impact.

Toby saw none of it as a problem.
He saw it as opportunity.

Whenever Amira’s food hit the floor, the ritual was the same. Stephanie and I shared a knowing glance.

“Caniche Cleaning Services,” we called.

And once again, Toby appeared.

He approached slowly, as if evaluating the scene of a gourmet crime. He sniffed carefully, checked for hidden treasures between chair legs and under the table, then got to work. His tail wagged with professional pride as he cleaned every corner. He had a special talent for finding tiny pieces of food no human eye could detect.

Amira watched him with fascination.
Sometimes she giggled.
Sometimes she offered him food deliberately, dropping it on the floor like a tip for excellent service.

Toby, ever the polite professional, accepted those payments with gratitude.

The whole thing became one of the funniest ongoing jokes in our home. We did not have a dog. We had a highly specialized cleaning technician who offered immediate, thorough, and enthusiastic service.

And the best part is that he genuinely thought he was helping.
In his mind, he was saving us from a household disaster.
In ours, he was just being Toby.

Caniche Cleaning Services remained active for years, ready at a moment’s notice.
It was efficient, dependable, and deeply adorable.

Classic Toby.

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Toby’s Very Confused Racism

Every dog has quirks.
Some chase their tails.
Some bark at the vacuum.
Toby had something far more embarrassing.

He was inexplicably, impossibly, ridiculously confused by our Black friends and any Black person he saw nearby.

The first time it happened, Stephanie and I nearly collapsed from shock.

Toby, the gentlest creature to ever exist, the dog who greeted strangers like long-lost family members, suddenly froze when he spotted a Black delivery driver walking toward our building. His tail dropped. His posture stiffened. His eyes went wide. Then the horror happened.

A confused little growl.

Not aggressive.
Not angry.
Just pure Toby confusion while staring at a completely innocent person minding their business.

Time stopped.

Stephanie and I reacted instantly.

“Toby, no. Absolutely not.”
“We are so sorry, he does NOT usually do this.”
“He is confused. We swear.”
“He loves everyone. He loves squirrels. He loves the vet. He even loves the mailman.”
“This is mortifying. We apologize.”

And, because panic turns the brain into a blender, one of us added:

“Toby, you are literally black yourself.”

Toby did not care.
He did not even understand the accusation.

It happened more than once.
A Black neighbour in the parking lot.
A Black friend visiting us.
A Black delivery guy dropping off a package.

And every time, Toby would briefly transform into a confused little security alarm.

A harmless, clueless, deeply mistaken alarm.

Five minutes later he was completely fine.
Once his dog-brain finished buffering, he would wag his tail, approach them gently, accept pets, and act like he had known them forever.

He simply needed time to process something that should not have required processing at all.

And every time it happened, Stephanie and I exchanged the same look of horror mixed with resignation.

“Why, Toby.”
“Why are you like this.”
“This is so awkward.”
“We swear we are not raising a problematic poodle.”

We apologized so much that we could have printed apology cards:

“Our dog is confused. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”

In the end, Toby absolutely adored every Black friend or neighbour he ever growled at in confusion. Once he got over his initial shock, he became his usual affectionate self.

But getting to that point was always a painfully awkward journey.

A sweet, gentle, deeply beloved poodle caught in an identity crisis he never solved.

Classic Toby.

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The Weather Curse

If there was one thing Toby perfected in his lifetime, it was choosing the worst possible moment to request a bathroom break.

We live in Quebec, which means the weather does whatever it wants. One moment it is calm and sunny, the next moment it becomes a snow explosion, an ice rink, sideways rain, or all three within an hour. Every Canadian knows this. But Toby took it to another level. His timing was supernatural.

I always tried to outsmart the weather. I checked the radar. I monitored alerts. I predicted the storms. I planned his walks like a military operation.

None of this mattered.

Because Toby did not care about the radar. Toby cared about chaos.

If the snowstorm was just beginning, he suddenly needed to go.
If freezing rain had turned the world into a skating rink, he suddenly needed to go.
If the sky was opening up with a biblical downpour, he suddenly needed to go.

And he never asked Stephanie.

He always came to me.

He would trot over, tail low, eyes wide, doing the famous Toby Stomach Dance. He pawed gently at my leg as if to say, “Father, the time is now. No delay is possible.”
The weather could be screaming, and Toby would not budge on his schedule.

So out we went into whatever disaster Quebec was offering that day. My size provided no protection whatsoever. Ice hit my face. Snow piled up at impossible angles. Rain soaked through every layer. Meanwhile Toby trotted along happily, sniffing the air like this was the perfect moment for a scenic outing.

Once we finally made it back inside, it was time for the second part of the ritual.
This is where Stephanie came in.

Her job was to dry Toby. And the important detail here is that Toby actually loved this part. He adored being wrapped in a towel. He loved the warmth, the attention, the soft hands. Being pat dried was his spa treatment. He leaned into the towel. He sighed dramatically. He enjoyed every second.

Unless something distracted him.

If there was food nearby, he lost interest.
If a toy squeaked in another room, he lost interest.
If he thought he heard the fridge open, he lost interest.
If a crumb existed anywhere within a five meter radius, he absolutely lost interest.

In those moments, he transformed from Spa Toby into Escape Artist Toby, trying to wiggle out of Stephanie’s grip so he could investigate whatever had stolen his attention.

“Toby, stay here.”
“Toby, stop moving.”
“Toby, you are still wet.”
“Toby, please, I need to dry the other side.”

It became a negotiation between a woman with a towel and a poodle who believed his priorities were far more important.

Eventually he stood still long enough to finish, warm and happy and fluffy again.
And every time he looked up with that proud little face, all the cold weather, all the soaked jackets, and all the slippery sidewalks felt worth it.

Classic Toby.

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The Muffin Betrayal

There were many things Toby believed with complete confidence.

He believed all couches were designed specifically for him.
He believed all visitors arrived with the intention of admiring him.
And most importantly, he believed that any cooking happening in the house was obviously for him.

This rule had no exceptions.
If a human was in the kitchen, Toby assumed his meal was being prepared.

It was September 2019, and Stephanie had decided to bake muffins. These were not dog muffins. They were not peanut butter treats. They were definitely not chicken.
They were regular human muffins.
And to make things worse for Toby, they were muffins for me.

Toby rejected this idea completely.

The moment Stephanie placed the tray into the oven, he understood that his duty had begun. He positioned himself in front of the oven like a guard on royal patrol. His posture was serious. His stare was intense. He was ready to protect the muffins with his life.

Every time the oven light flicked on, Toby leaned forward as if receiving secret instructions from the Muffin Gods.
He watched them rise with the focus of a scientist waiting for a breakthrough.

Stephanie and I were chatting, but Toby heard nothing.
His entire soul was concentrated on the baking muffins.

At one point he let out a quiet little whine. It was his polite way of saying,
“I respectfully request an update on the status of my muffins.”

And then came the devastating moment.

The muffins came out of the oven.
The tray cooled on the counter.
I let him know that these muffins were for me, not for him.

Toby slowly turned his head toward me.

The look on his face was unforgettable.
Utter heartbreak.
Complete confusion.
A soft sadness that could have melted concrete.

He stayed seated in the exact same guarding position, but his eyes told the whole story.

“Not for me? After everything I have done? I have protected them with honor.”

The picture captures this perfectly. Toby looking back over his shoulder with a face that said he was trying to understand how the universe could allow such injustice.

We reassured him.
We gave him a dog-safe treat.
We complimented him on his exceptional muffin-guarding skills.

But he stayed by that oven a little longer, as if trying to figure out how muffins could be created without being intended for him.

And to be honest, knowing Toby, I do not think he ever accepted that idea.

Classic Toby.