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.
