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.