In January 2021, my professional life changed completely.
I became Chief of Côte Saint Luc EMS.
It was a job filled with responsibility, long hours, high pressure and constant unpredictability.
And with that promotion came a second, unspoken appointment.
If I was the new EMS Chief, then Toby was the real EMS Chief.
From the moment he walked into the station, everything shifted.
He was no longer just my partner.
He became everyone’s partner.
Toby learned the rhythm of EMS life immediately.
He came on call runs with me, although he preferred sleeping in the emergency SUV instead of participating in the actual work. He followed me from room to room like a shadow. He patrolled the hallways. He inspected offices. And he made sure any medic foolish enough to still be sleeping at nine in the morning received a wet poodle wake up call on the sofa.
The secretary fed him treats and brushed him during her breaks.
Dispatchers whispered hello to him like he was another member of the shift.
Crew members greeted him before they greeted me.
The students in training adored him.
The volunteers loved him even more.
He became our station’s dog.
He belonged to all of us.
And word spread outside the building too.
Police officers from the station next door came to take him for walks after difficult calls. It helped them decompress. They left with softer shoulders and lighter hearts.
Paramedics from Montreal EMS stopped by on their lunch breaks with biscuits, hoping Toby was around to brighten their day.
Even the director, a man who lived under impossible pressure during the pandemic, could not resist Toby. Toby regularly snuck into his office, curled up on the chair and snored so loudly you could hear him down the hallway. The director pretended to object. He never actually did.
And Toby helped the public too.
COVID calls.
Mental health emergencies.
Lonely people.
Scared families.
On one call, we struggled to escort a young patient outside. She was terrified, shaking, overwhelmed. Nothing worked.
Until Toby stepped forward.
He looked at her with calm eyes and a soft tail. She reached for him. He stepped closer. She breathed easier. And for the first time since we arrived, she stood up willingly because Toby was waiting for her at the door.
That was Toby.
Quiet care.
Pure heart.
Through every lick, every kiss, every cuddle, Toby became far more than my dog.
He became the station’s comfort.
A piece of joy people clung to in the darkest months of the pandemic.
A constant when everything else was collapsing.
And when he passed in September 2022, it was not just me who cried.
It was an entire EMS and Public Security family.
Paramedics. Dispatchers. Medics. Officers. Volunteers.
People who had held him, walked him, fed him, relied on him, laughed with him.
People who found light in him when the world felt unbearably heavy.
We lost more than a station dog.
We lost a beautiful soul who had cared for all of us in ways he never understood.
Through everything, my poodle became our poodle.
And his absence left a quietness in the station that will never feel complete.
Classic Toby.
Beloved by one family.
Beloved by many.