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.