A Discourse on Drool

It's an onomatopoetic word, the long, mournful "oo" sounding like the slow ooze of drool. Among people who freely discuss all bodily fluids and functions of their dogs, it goes unmentioned, perhaps a topic too repugnant to contemplate. Yet its signs are evident where the dog, as of someone gently dripping, dripping on my kitchen floor, leaves spots to dry and adhere to dirt and dust with the gluing properties of egg whites.

After growing up squeamish, I can now leave the dinner table to clean up dog vomit or worse and then calmly return to eating. But drool--I shudder at the very word. Drool is gross, yucky, slimy, icky, and gooey. I cannot photograph it because I don't have an underwater camera.

I deeply appreciated the fact that my Airedales did not drip drool. No slimy puddles in the kitchen or wet patches on the carpet whenever food was in sight. No having to carry a towel on my shoulder as if always ready to burp a baby. True, when Airedales get happy and run circuits with other dogs, they foam at the mouth and the non-Airedale people flee screaming, thinking there's a mad dog on the loose; but that's a trivial matter.

The jaw in question

Miró drools. Is the construction of his jaw at fault? It looks like a normal Airedale jaw with a normal Airedale beard to act as drool-catcher (and mine a normal leg to act as human handkerchief for said dog). Why, then, the flood? At his mealtime, he knows he must sit until given the signal to dive in; but the signal comes quickly lest we drown or I gag, whichever comes first. When I give him a treat, I must wipe off my entire hand. I formed the bad habit of letting Miró lick the bowl after I eat cereal; now he begins drooling with expectation as soon as I begin breakfast. I cannot watch.

 

What to do but steel myself on a daily basis and live with it? When he's gone--and I hope that's a very long time from now--I will miss the drool.