Category: Heart

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.

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.

Some dogs are easygoing.
Some dogs are independent.
And then there was Toby.

Toby had two settings when it came to being away from his humans:
1. Mild panic
2. Full dramatic despair

Which meant he either came to work with me or stayed at the one doggy daycare he actually trusted.
And thankfully, that daycare adored him as much as we did.

Toby had made a few good dog-friends there over the years. The kind of friendships built on shared squeaky toys, synchronized naps, and an unspoken agreement that the fence existed to be judged, not touched. The daycare staff knew him well. They knew his anxious little rituals, his favourite corner, and the exact tone of voice needed to convince him that yes, his humans were coming back.

They also knew his birthday.

Normally, Toby’s birthday was in July.
But 2021 was chaos for all of us.
We were exhausted, overworked, stretched thin.
And somehow, his special day slipped by.

Fast forward to September.

One morning, I dropped Toby off at daycare. He walked in with his usual charming combination of excitement and mild emotional instability. The staff member at the door gave me a conspiratorial smile.

“You know,” she said, “we owe someone a birthday.”

And that’s how Toby ended up getting the most unexpected, incredibly overdue, and completely perfect 8th birthday celebration.

The daycare owner went all out.
A dog-friendly cupcake topped with peanut butter.
A candle.
A festive little blue birthday hat that Toby wore with an impressive sense of pride, considering hats were usually everything he hated in life.

The photo they sent me was priceless.

There was Toby, sitting politely (for once), his head tilted just enough for the blue hat to look slightly too big. His eyes were locked on the cupcake like it was the Holy Grail. His tongue was mid-lick, curled in anticipation, as if he were tasting it before it even reached him.

The staff sang.
The dogs barked.
Toby vibrated with joy.

He got his cake.
He got his celebration.
And in that moment, he looked like the happiest dog in the world.

It didn’t matter that the birthday was two months late.
Toby didn’t keep track of dates.
He kept track of moments.

And this one was perfect.

Classic Toby.