Category: Cries

Christmas has a way of bringing certain presences back with it.

The lights go up. The air turns colder. The evenings grow quieter. And even years later, this season still carries Toby with it, gently and insistently, like a memory that knows exactly when to return.

In 2020 and 2021, Christmas was different. The world slowed down. Doors closed. Gatherings disappeared. It was just us at home with a very young Amira, learning how to be a family while everything outside felt uncertain.

And through all of it, Toby was there.

He did not need a role.
He did not need a purpose.
He simply existed in the space with us.

He lay near the tree while the lights blinked softly. He followed us from room to room, always nearby but never demanding attention. He curled up beside Amira on the floor, watching her explore the world in small, careful movements. He slept close during long winter evenings when the cold pressed against the windows and the house felt especially still.

Toby became the quiet warmth of those Christmases.

When the outside world felt heavy and unpredictable, he brought something steady into the house. Not excitement. Not distraction. Just presence. The kind that makes you feel like, for this moment, everything is exactly where it should be.

Christmas mornings were simple. No rush. No visitors. No noise. Just paper being torn, Amira’s curiosity, and Toby occasionally stealing a piece of wrapping paper and carrying it away like it was meant just for him.

He was our entertainment.
He was our comfort.
He was our calm.

This Christmas is not the first without Toby.
It is the third.

Time has moved on, as it always does. Life has taken turns we did not predict. But when Christmas comes back around, Toby comes with it. Not as a solution, not as a symbol of unity, but as a memory that still carries weight.

Back during those COVID Christmases, when the world felt closed and uncertain, Toby was simply there. He did not try to fix anything. He did not understand what was happening outside our walls. He only knew his home, his people, and his quiet place within it.

That is what I remember most.

Not a perfect family moment.
Not a promise of permanence.
Just a dog who filled the room with warmth when everything else felt smaller.

Toby belonged to that chapter. Fully and honestly. He was part of those Christmases the way only a dog can be. Completely present. Completely unaware of what would come later.

Now, years after he is gone, those memories do not feel lighter. They feel heavier, because they are finished. But they are still his. They are not about what stayed or what changed. They are about who he was when he was here.

Toby does not represent what life looks like now.
He represents a time when his quiet presence was enough to make the season feel whole.

And that is how I choose to remember him.

Not as something that held everything together forever, but as a steady, loving presence that existed exactly when we needed it.

Classic Toby.
Exactly where he belonged.
Exactly when he belonged.

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.

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.