Category: Laughs

At some point, Stephanie decided that Toby deserved better sleep.

Not “better than average.”

Better.

His existing dog bed was fine. Respectable. Soft. Entirely appropriate for a large standard poodle.

But apparently, we had been underperforming.

So began the research phase.

Foam density.
Orthopedic certifications.
Joint support.
Neck bolsters.
Temperature regulation.

I am fairly certain there were medical diagrams involved.

And then it arrived.

A bed so large that the delivery driver looked at me with quiet concern.

It was enormous.

Thick memory foam. Elevated sides. Reinforced lumbar zones. Structured head support. It looked less like a dog bed and more like a rehabilitation center mattress for retired athletes.

The price was bold enough that my credit card company called to confirm I was not financing a small studio apartment.

“Yes sir, are you aware of this transaction?”

Unfortunately, yes.

Now here is where it gets good.

This majestic orthopedic throne was not placed in the living room.

No.

It was installed.

At the foot of our queen bed.

Inside the master bedroom.

Which meant that basic passage from one side of the room to the other now required navigation skills. You either squeezed carefully between mattress and wall or performed a small sideways shuffle to avoid stepping on the poodle’s premium sleep estate.

We had reorganized our bedroom around Toby’s spinal health.

Priorities were clear.

And of course, the throne did not come alone.

Blankets.
Multiple blankets.
Pillows.

His majesty had options.

One soft fleece.
One thicker winter blanket.
Occasionally a decorative pillow that suspiciously resembled ours.

He would arrange himself perfectly. Head resting on the bolster. Body aligned. Blankets draped just enough to maintain comfort without sacrificing dignity.

He loved it.

Stephanie loved it.

And then the true betrayal unfolded.

Some nights, Stephanie would lie down next to him “just for a minute.”

Just to cuddle.
Just to see how comfortable it was.

Next thing I knew, I would wake up in the middle of the night and realize my wife was not in our bed.

She was asleep.

On Toby’s orthopedic throne.

Head on his pillow. Blanket pulled up. Toby stretched beside her, completely unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

I stood there once, looking at the scene.

My wife.
My dog.
Sharing a mattress more expensive than my first car.

And me.

Alone.

Toby 1
Husband 0

The bed remained at the foot of ours for years. A daily reminder that somewhere along the way, the poodle had secured not only premium back support but also a clear emotional victory.

Classic Toby.
Rearranged the master bedroom.
Secured luxury bedding.
Outranked the husband.

Every dog owner has that moment.

That moment where you look at your dog and think,
“This would be hilarious with a small accessory.”

In our case, it was a bandana.

Not around the neck.
That would have been reasonable.
No.

We gently tied it over Toby’s head.

Just for a picture.
Just for a second.
Just to see.

And that is when we discovered something important.

Toby had standards.

The bandana sat perfectly. Tied under his chin, framing his face in a way that, for reasons I still cannot explain, immediately gave off strong Eastern European village grandma vibes.

Not sweet grandma.

I mean intense grandma.

The kind who supervises from a balcony. The kind who judges your posture. The kind who has very strong opinions about how things should be done.

Stephanie and I burst out laughing.

Toby did not.

The moment the fabric touched his head, his expression shifted. He froze. His eyes narrowed slightly. His whole face communicated a single message.

This is unacceptable.

Then came the coughing.

Not a gentle cough.
An aggressive, deliberate cough.

The kind of cough that says, “There is clearly something lodged here and I demand its immediate removal.”

He coughed once.
Twice.
Looked at us.
Coughed again.

The message was clear. He was attempting to medically justify the removal of this indignity.

I managed to snap the photo at exactly the right moment. And it is to die for. Toby, sitting perfectly still, bandana tied neatly, eyes filled with betrayal, mid aggressive cough. A poodle who had clearly not approved this casting decision.

The second we untied it, he shook his head violently, as if cleansing himself of the entire experience.

Balance restored.
Identity reclaimed.

We never attempted headwear again.

Some dogs tolerate costumes.
Some dogs enjoy being dressed up.

Toby allowed many things in life.

But he would not go down in history as someone’s Balkan grandma.

Classic Toby.
Patient.
But deeply opposed to head accessories.

The dog park was supposed to be freedom.

A large fenced area.
No leash.
Space to run.
Dogs everywhere.

Toby was finally free to play.

Except Toby did not play like other dogs.

While everyone else ran, wrestled, and chased balls, Toby walked. He sniffed. He observed. He analyzed. He moved slowly, like royalty inspecting its domain. He did not waste energy. He did not engage in nonsense. He was there to assess.

Everything was calm.
Everything was peaceful.

And then it happened.

A delivery car drove by.

Not just any delivery car.
A red Benny & Co rotisserie chicken delivery car.
With the iconic chicken comb sitting proudly on top of the roof.

The audacity.

Somewhere deep inside Toby’s soul, something snapped.

How dare they.
How dare they transport chicken.
And how dare it not be for him.

In that exact moment, Toby abandoned all dignity.

He launched himself across the dog park like a man on a mission. Barking aggressively at the moving car, running full speed along the fence line, completely convinced that if he barked hard enough, the chicken would surrender itself.

Thank God the fences were tall.
And solid.
And long.

The delivery driver slowed down, clearly confused. One moment delivering chicken, the next being chased by an enraged black poodle screaming accusations through metal fencing.

People at the dog park stopped.
Dogs paused mid play.
Humans laughed.
Some looked worried.

The driver looked back, trying to understand why a poodle was yelling at his vehicle with such conviction.

Toby did not care.

Bark bark.
Bak bak.
Honestly, it was unclear what language he was speaking.

But the message was obvious.

“I want my chicken.”

He chased that car as far as the fence allowed. When it finally disappeared from view, Toby stopped abruptly, stood still, and stared at the empty road with deep disappointment.

He had failed.

No chicken.
No justice.
Only betrayal.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Toby turned around, sniffed the grass, and resumed his slow royal walk through the park.

Mission attempted.
Standards upheld.

Classic Toby.
Free to play.
Chose chaos instead.

At some point, Toby decided he had a job.

We lived in a condo facing the Mont Saint Hilaire train station. It was a busy street. Trains passing. Cars stopping. People walking. Dogs being walked. Bikes rushing by. For a smart poodle with an eye for detail, it was endlessly fascinating.

Being on the first floor gave him the perfect vantage point. High enough to see everything. Low enough to be seen.

One afternoon, Stephanie noticed something unusual.
Toby was quiet.

No pacing.
No barking.
No dramatic sighs.

That alone was suspicious.

She stepped out onto the balcony to see what he was up to.

And there he was.

Toby had climbed onto the balcony chair and carefully positioned himself on the armrest. Not awkwardly. Not halfway. Perfectly. Sitting upright like a child who had been told to sit nicely and wait.

Back straight.
Paws placed neatly in front of him.
Eyes forward.

He looked serious. Focused. Almost professional.

Stephanie stood there for a moment, trying to understand what she was witnessing. Then she started laughing. The kind of laughter that takes over completely because the image in front of you makes no sense and all the sense at the same time.

She called me over.
I looked.
And immediately lost it.

There was our poodle, perched on the armrest like a tiny security guard, quietly overseeing the neighbourhood.

From his elevated command post, Toby watched everything below. Dogs walking by were carefully assessed. Humans passing through were observed. Sometimes he would let out a soft whine. Sometimes a perfectly timed bark. Just enough to remind everyone that yes, someone was watching.

People below would slow down.
They would look around.
Then they would look up.

And there he was.

A black poodle sitting politely on a balcony chair arm, staring down with calm judgment. Walkers would laugh. Some would wave. Some would stop and take a second look, clearly trying to process what they were seeing.

Toby accepted the attention without moving.
This was his post.

Stephanie grabbed her phone and snapped the picture at exactly the right moment. Perfect posture. Perfect timing. A poodle fully committed to his role.

The funniest part was how long he stayed there. He did not sprawl. He did not shift. He did not get distracted. He sat. He watched. He supervised.

Classic Toby.
Head of balcony security.
Always on duty.

Every dog has an enemy.

For some, it is the mail carrier.
For others, it is vacuum cleaners.
For Toby, it was squirrels.

Specifically, urban squirrels. The confident ones. The ones who knew exactly what they were doing. The ones who dared to exist within his line of sight.

Living near the Mont Saint Hilaire train station meant squirrels were everywhere. Running across sidewalks. Climbing trees. Sitting on fences like they owned the place. To Toby, this was unacceptable.

From the moment he spotted one, his entire demeanor changed.

His posture stiffened.
His head tilted slightly forward.
His eyes locked on target.

This was no longer casual observation.
This was a situation.

He did not bark immediately. That would have been beneath him. Instead, he produced a low, offended sound from deep in his chest. A warning. A notice of presence. A formal announcement that rules existed here.

Sometimes the squirrel stopped.
Sometimes it stared back.
Sometimes it flicked its tail.

That tail flick was personal.

Toby would lean forward, muscles tight, clearly debating whether this was the day he would finally handle the squirrel problem once and for all. He never moved beyond the boundary of reason, but his disappointment was visible.

On walks, squirrels became his main distraction. He could ignore cars. He could ignore people. He could tolerate dogs. But a squirrel crossing the sidewalk? Unacceptable.

He would freeze mid walk, mid step, mid sniff. The leash would go taut. His attention fully consumed by the audacity of a small rodent existing freely.

Sometimes the squirrel would climb a tree and sit just high enough to be safe. That was the worst outcome. Toby would stand there, staring upward, convinced that if he waited long enough, justice would prevail.

It never did.

From the balcony, the situation escalated. The higher vantage point gave Toby the illusion of authority. Squirrels below became targets of intense supervision. Every movement tracked. Every pause logged. Every glance returned with judgment.

Toby never forgot a squirrel.
He remembered routes.
He remembered patterns.
He remembered repeat offenders.

And yet, despite all his vigilance, squirrels remained undefeated.

Still, Toby took his role seriously. Someone had to enforce the rules. Someone had to make sure the squirrels knew they were being watched.

And even if they did not care, Toby did.

Classic Toby.
Chief Squirrel Compliance Officer.
Zero victories.
Unwavering dedication.

Every dog has a toy phase.
Toby had an obsession.

For reasons no one will ever fully understand, Toby developed an intense, lifelong passion for squeaky toys shaped like salamanders or dinosaurs. Not balls. Not ropes. Not plush animals.
Only long, weird, prehistoric creatures that screamed when bitten.

Once he chose one, that was it.
The toy became part of him.

He played with them constantly.
He slept next to them.
He guarded them.
And most importantly, he brought them everywhere.

And no, this was never suggested.
We did not hand him the toy before walks.
We did not encourage it for laughs.
We did not stage anything.

Toby decided, entirely on his own, that dinosaurs belonged outside.

So there we were, walking through the neighbourhood, Toby proudly trotting along with a bright green squeaky dinosaur dangling from his mouth. People stopped us constantly.

They laughed.
They pointed.
They melted.
They asked questions.

“Is that his toy?”
“Does he always do that?”
“That is the cutest thing I have ever seen.”

Toby soaked it all in.
Every smile.
Every laugh.
Every bit of attention.

And he never let go of the dinosaur.
Not even to pee.

Yes.
He peed while holding the dinosaur.
Focused.
Professional.
Committed.

Sometimes I genuinely wondered if he had figured out the fastest possible way to become the center of attention in public spaces. A large black poodle carrying a squeaky dinosaur is apparently a winning formula.

But the real performances happened at home.

After walks, Toby did not simply relax.
He performed.

He squeaked those toys like his life depended on it. As fast as possible. As loud as possible. With no rhythm and no mercy. A true one poodle orchestra.

Professionals say dogs squeak toys to release stress or express playfulness.

I do not believe that.

I believe Toby was a strategic menace.

He always waited.
Until the movie got serious.
Until the plot thickened.
Until everyone stopped talking.

Then the squeaking began.

And during COVID, he reached peak chaos.

One day, I was on an extremely important phone conference with Quebec Provincial Public Health officials. We were discussing emergency measures. Serious decisions. High stakes. Professional voices.

And right on cue, Toby chose that exact moment to express his musical talent.

Squeak.
Squeak squeak.
SQUEAK.

Loud.
Relentless.
Unstoppable.

I muted myself.
I apologized.
I tried to grab the dinosaur.

Toby clamped down harder.

I had to unmute and explain, with a straight face, that my poodle had decided to perform live background music during a public health crisis.

Somehow, people laughed.
Somehow, the world did not end.
And Toby looked very proud of himself.

Classic Toby.
A prehistoric toy.
Perfect timing.
Zero shame.

Any dog owner will tell you that dogs sleep in strange positions.
But Toby did not just sleep strangely.
Toby turned sleeping into an Olympic performance.

He had a repertoire.
A full catalog of poses.
A menu of shapes no living creature should be able to achieve.

There was the Couch Potato, where he sprawled across every cushion like he paid rent for the entire sofa.

There was the Sirloin Steak, where he would lie completely flat with his limbs tucked in so tightly he looked like something ready to be grilled.

There was the Triangle, an impressive feat where he managed to fold himself into three sharp angles and still fall asleep instantly.

And then there were the unnamed poses.
The ones that defied science.
The ones that made Stephanie and I look at each other and say,
“How is this even physically possible?”

Toby somehow believed he was the only one living in the house.
He would fling himself into new positions without warning, as if gravity was optional for him. Sometimes the shift was so violent that cushions flew, blankets exploded into the air, and the entire couch shook like it had experienced a minor earthquake.

He snored.
He grumbled.
He groaned like an old man getting out of a chair.
He sighed dramatically.
He sneezed mid-roll.
He even coughed himself awake because his stretching routine was apparently too intense for his own lungs.

Watching him sleep was like watching a theatre production called “One Poodle. Infinite Shapes. Zero Awareness.”

My personal favorite was when he would lie completely upside down, paws straight up in the air, mouth slightly open, tongue hanging out, looking like a creature who had accepted defeat in life. And then, moments later, he would spring into a different position as if a director had yelled “Pose change!”

Every shift was accompanied by sound effects.
Every pose came with personality.
Every nap turned into a performance.

Some dogs rest quietly.
Some dogs snuggle politely.

Toby?
He auditioned for Cirque du Soleil in his sleep.

Classic Toby.
Turning simple naps into unforgettable comedy.

Poodles are supposed to be water dogs.
They are literally bred for it.
They have webbed paws, strong legs, proud posture and the confidence of Olympic divers.
That is the legend.

And then there was Toby.

Toby and water had a relationship best described as two extremely cynical friends who barely tolerate each other. He was curious enough to sniff it, suspicious enough to hesitate, and delusional enough to believe he could interact with water without actually entering it.

Yes, Toby had webbed paws.
No, Toby did not believe in using them.

Even with a flotation device, which is an entire story of humiliation and drama on its own, Toby treated lakes and rivers like they were moral tests he did not consent to.

Whenever I threw him a ball or a stick to fetch, things went well until the object betrayed him by landing in the water. The moment that happened, Toby would freeze at the shoreline and look at me with the most accusatory expression a dog has ever produced.

Not fear.
Not confusion.
Pure betrayal.

His eyes said, very clearly,
“Are you fucking kidding me right now.”

He would stare at the floating object, then stare back at me, then stare at the water again, as if waiting for someone to come and fix this crime against poodle dignity.

Then, because he was delicate and royal, he attempted something extraordinary.

He tried to retrieve the item without touching the water.
At all.

He leaned forward.
He stretched his neck.
He reached his paw.
He braced himself dramatically.
He contorted his body like he was performing interpretive dance.
He did anything and everything except enter the water he was born to swim in.

If the stick floated just out of reach, Toby discovered his signature move.
He would bend his back in a perfect upward arch, trying to keep his belly impossibly far from the water. The result was a poodle shaped like a terrified question mark, desperately attempting to perform a rescue mission without compromising his comfort.

And when the inevitable happened, and he realized he needed to go in, he stepped into the water like a Victorian child touching something mildly unpleasant. One paw at a time. Holding his breath. Bracing for doom.

His belly was enemy territory.
If water reached it, he reacted like he had been personally wronged by nature.

But he fetched the ball.
Eventually.
Once the betrayal settled.

And then he came back with the expression of someone who had survived a major life event and was expecting applause for his bravery.

Classic Toby.
A water dog in theory.
A drama king in practice.
But loved, always loved.

There is a rule that every dog owner learns eventually.
It is a simple rule.
A universal rule.
A rule created by chaos itself.

Never leave your phone on a sofa that your dog believes belongs to him.
Not even for one minute.
Not even to go to the bathroom.

I learned this the hard way.

Toby had claimed a specific sofa in the living room as his personal throne. The armrest was his favourite spot. It was the perfect height for dramatic lounging. It was ideal for sighing loudly. It allowed him to look offended at anyone who dared walk by.

One day, I placed my phone on the sofa, went to the bathroom for a quick moment, and came back to find Toby standing over the phone like a bouncer checking IDs at the entrance of a nightclub.

He wanted the armrest.
The phone was in his way.
This was unacceptable.

So he did what Toby always did.
He tried to push the offending object away with his paw.

Except Toby was a poodle, not an engineer.
He hit the screen.
Then he hit it again.
And again.
Somehow, in the process, he managed to turn on the camera.
Then he managed to switch to selfie mode.
Then he managed to trigger the shutter.

And that is how Toby accidentally took one of the greatest selfies I have ever seen.

The photo was not even blurry.
It was perfectly framed.
Toby’s face filled the entire screen.
His eyebrows were raised.
His eyes were squinting.
His expression was pure “What is this thing and why is it in my spot.”

A poodle selfie.
A genuine, unfiltered, annoyed poodle selfie.

Poodle 1.
Eddy’s smartphone 0.

I laughed so hard I nearly peed again, this time from shock rather than the original bathroom break.

I still have the picture saved.
It is Toby’s version of a mugshot.
A portrait of a poodle who believed the world should never get between him and his sofa.

Classic Toby.
Annoyed, dramatic, perfect.