Category: Laughs

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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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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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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.

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His Royal Highness and the Stomach of Doom

Some dogs have sensitive stomachs.
Some dogs have big appetites.
Toby, being a Caniche Royal, chose to have both… at the exact same time.

It was June 2020.
COVID was in full force. Life was stressful, unpredictable, and exhausting.

And Toby, in true royal fashion, decided this was the perfect moment to eat something stupid.

To understand how ridiculous this story is, you need to know a few things about Toby.

First: the breed name in French for a standard poodle is Caniche Royal.
And Toby took the “royal” part very literally.
He believed he was royalty, with all the perks and absolutely none of the responsibilities.

Second: his stomach was absurdly sensitive.
A single forbidden ingredient, one stolen crumb, one random Kleenex (for reasons known only to the universe)… and his entire digestive system staged a coup.

Third: despite this delicate stomach, Toby had zero self-control.
He would steal other dogs’ treats.
He would sniff out tiny particles of food like a truffle pig.
He would happily eat tissues, wrappers, pieces of fluff, and anything that wasn’t nailed down.

And then he would look at us like,
“I didn’t do anything wrong, but I feel terrible, please fix me immediately.”

So when Toby suddenly seemed uncomfortable, we panicked.
Because poodles can be at risk of gastric torsion, and his symptoms sometimes mimicked it.
Which meant:

Enter the vet.
Enter the abdominal imaging.
Enter the bill that could make a grown man cry.

Every. Single. Time.

Thousands of dollars to rule out every terrifying condition imaginable… only to receive the same diagnosis:

“Toby ate something he shouldn’t have.”
Again.

And then came the aftermath — unforgettable in all the wrong ways.

For days, Toby’s royal digestive system expelled whatever nonsense he had swallowed. But here’s the part that still amazes me: he never once soiled the house.

Not once.

Even in full gastrointestinal catastrophe mode, His Royal Highness maintained palace etiquette.

Instead, Toby would sprint toward us, eyes wide, tail rigid, paws scrambling in a frantic dance. He jumped on us, whined, barked, and pleaded with every fiber of his being.

The urgent message was always crystal clear:
“Escort me outside immediately. We are seconds from disaster.”

And the second that door opened, he would rocket into the yard and unleash a fountain of doom that defied gravity, biology, and common sense.

I would stand there, watching him, thinking,
How does a dog with the stomach of a Fabergé egg also have the appetite of a dumpster raccoon?

A fully grown adult man, humbled yet again by a poodle with luxury tastes and a garbage palate.

Afterward, Toby would trot back inside with this innocent little face that said:
“I feel better. Thank you. Also, do we have snacks?”

Back at home, he rested on his bed, his entire abdomen shaved from the imaging, looking like a tiny lion cub recovering from battle. A soft, vulnerable, ridiculous lion cub who cost me a small fortune.

And still, I loved him through every chaotic moment.
Even when I was elbow-deep in paper towels.
Even when I swore I’d never financially recover from this.
Even when I wondered how such a royal creature could be so intensely stupid about what he ate.

Because that was Toby.
Messy, dramatic, fragile, chaotic.
And absolutely unforgettable.

Classic Toby.

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The Very Late, Very Necessary Birthday Party

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.

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The Day Toby Met the Hairless Cat

Some moments in life feel like crossover episodes.
This one was Toby’s.

We were visiting Stephanie’s dad and his spouse, in their quiet home filled with warm lighting, old family photos, and the kind of calm only lived-in spaces have. Everything was peaceful, familiar, predictable.

Until the cat walked in.

To really appreciate what happened next, you need to understand one thing.
Toby had seen many animals in his life. Birds. Squirrels. Other dogs. Even the occasional rabbit he desperately wanted to befriend.

But he had never seen a hairless cat.

The moment this smooth, pinkish, elegant creature turned the corner, Toby froze. His tail stopped mid-wag. His head tilted in that classic “loading… please wait” poodle way. You could almost hear the gears turning inside his brain.

I swear he was thinking,
What in the name of dog treats is that thing?

The cat blinked at him with royal indifference, completely unimpressed by this tall, fluffy creature blocking the hallway. But Toby’s curiosity was stronger than his manners. He took a slow step toward the cat. Then another. He sniffed the air like he was studying a rare and mysterious specimen.

Amira, who was watching all of this from beside us, burst into delighted giggles.
She had never seen Toby so confused.
To her, this was pure entertainment.

And then it happened.

Toby decided to investigate the only way he knew how.

He tried to lick the cat.

Not a cautious sniff. Not a polite hello.
No. Toby went straight for the full taste-test approach.

The cat, who absolutely did not consent to being sampled, jumped back with a shocked chirp that could only be translated to,
Sir, this is unacceptable.

Amira laughed even harder.
She clapped her hands and pointed, thrilled by the unexpected chaos unfolding in front of her.

Toby, however, was on a mission. He tried again. And again the cat retreated, now visibly offended by the audacity of this fluffy intruder. The expression on its tiny, hairless face was a perfect mix of disgust, confusion, and existential crisis.

To Toby, this warm, wrinkly creature was interesting enough to lick.
To the cat, Toby was a giant, over-friendly tongue with legs.
To Amira, this was the funniest thing she had ever seen.

After a few more enthusiastic attempts and several dramatic feline protests, we stepped in. Toby looked up at us like,
But I need one more taste. For scientific purposes.

The cat fled to the tallest piece of furniture it could find, glaring down like a tiny, bald monarch who had narrowly escaped being taste-tested. Toby sat below, tail thumping, eyes wide with fascination, still trying to understand what in the world he had just encountered.

Amira kept giggling, repeating “Toby silly!” over and over, as if she had just witnessed the greatest comedy skit of her young life.

Eventually everyone settled, but Toby never stopped sneaking curious glances at the cat.
And honestly, who could blame him?

Looking back, it remains one of my favourite memories.
Toby’s curiosity. Amira’s innocence. The cat’s complete outrage.
All wrapped into one perfect moment of chaos and laughter.

Classic Toby.