2020 was a year that changed everything.
For me.
For Stephanie.
For Amira, who was still growing inside her.
And for Toby, who faced the chaos with the soft strength only a dog can offer.
When the first wave of COVID hit Quebec, life turned into a constant blur. I was pulled from one emergency mandate to another, working as an emergency preparedness expert during the largest public health crisis of our time. Overnight, I was appointed as a direct advisor to the chief executive of Urgences santé. It felt like the responsibility of an entire city had landed on my shoulders.
The work never stopped.
Seven days a week.
From six thirty in the morning until midnight.
Every single day.
For months.
Stephanie was very pregnant then. She was carrying new life, carrying the stress of the pandemic, and carrying more of the household than anyone ever should have while expecting. Walking Toby became difficult for her. She needed rest.
And right there, in the middle of all this chaos, Toby stepped up in a way I will never forget.
He became the rhythm that kept me alive.
He allowed me to build a strict ritual around his needs. A ritual that forced me to stand up, move, breathe, go outside, and break away from crisis mode. A ritual that grounded me when everything else felt unstable.
Our days looked exactly like this:
6h30: Operational briefing.
7h30: Toby’s morning walk while I received my communications updates.
8h00: Prepare the executive briefing.
8h15: Present it to the CEO.
9h00: COVID data, partners, emergencies, decisions.
11h00: Toby’s second walk while I briefed directors.
11h50: Steering committee.
13h00: Toby’s afternoon walk while I reviewed new information.
13h30: Quebec Premier’s national briefing.
14h30: Communications summary.
15h00: Clinical oversight.
16h00: Partner follow ups.
16h30: Operational reviews.
17h00: Toby’s third walk while I spoke with the regional medical director.
17h30: More meetings.
18h00: Supper with Stephanie and Toby, usually while I stayed on a call.
18h30: More meetings with Quebec’s Ministry.
22h00: Prepare the next morning briefing.
23h00: Toby’s night walk.
23h30: Send the final briefing.
And then we did it again.
But Toby never lost track of the schedule.
He knew every minute of it.
He kept me accountable.
He kept me moving.
He would poke my leg with his nose the moment we reached the exact time for his walk. A soft reminder. A gentle nudge. A no-excuses signal for me to break away from the laptop and go outside.
He became the heartbeat behind my routine.
And then, in June 2020, Amira arrived.
Our world expanded.
Our exhaustion multiplied.
Our love deepened.
And Toby simply adapted.
He kept the routine.
He kept the timing.
He kept the structure.
But now, he allowed Amira to join in.
It was not a question or a worry.
It was natural to him.
His walks were no longer just for him and me.
They were for his little human too.
If I placed her carefully in her carrier or stroller, Toby walked beside her with a tenderness that felt almost sacred. He accepted her presence instantly, as if the routine had always belonged to the three of us.
It remains one of the most beautiful memories I have from that year.
There was fear everywhere.
Stress everywhere.
Uncertainty everywhere.
But there, on each walk, was a small moment of peace.
A father, his newborn daughter, and the poodle who kept them both grounded.
Toby was the constant in a world that had stopped.
The anchor in a year where time blurred.
The reason I kept moving when everything told me to collapse.
I will never forget what he gave me in 2020.
Classic Toby.
My metronome in the storm.
My partner through crisis.
My reminder that love can pull you through anything.