I feel really vulnerable posting this, but I also believe it’s something other dog owners may relate to—maybe not specifically the drooling, but the struggle of loving a pet that others might not accept.
Anyway, here goes:
My dog, who I’ll call Buddy for now, has a habit of drooling like it’s some sort of recreational sport. It’s not just a little slobber around the mouth. He drools so much that whenever he shakes his head, I have to dodge like I’m in some slow-motion action movie scene. I end up wiping down walls, floors, couches—sometimes it feels like I’m cleaning half the day just trying to keep the place presentable.
I adopted him a year and a half ago from a local shelter. I can’t say I was fully prepared for what was coming. When I first met him, he greeted me with a giant string of saliva dangling off his jowls, swinging in the breeze. But I saw how gentle his eyes were, and that was it. I felt this weird connection that I can’t quite explain. One of those moments where you look at a dog and realize, “I’m meant to take this one home.” I remember telling the shelter worker that drool didn’t bother me at all. And back then, I honestly believed it.
Fast forward to the present, and let’s just say I’ve learned more about myself—and about cleaning products—than I ever expected. Every single day starts pretty much the same way:
I let Buddy out of his crate, and within seconds, I notice thick saliva dripping from his lips. He’ll stretch, yawn, and leave behind a trail of drool on the floor. I’m prepared for it now, so I keep a towel within arm’s reach. I’m basically the person who can find every brand of paper towel on sale within a 25-mile radius. That’s how serious it’s gotten.
Despite all the endless wiping and mopping, I’ve grown to adore this dog like he’s part of my soul. And I can’t help but notice how other people react to him. My friends, who generally like animals, walk in and automatically cringe when they see him run up to greet them with a frothy grin. I usually have to do a whole disclaimerspeech: “He drools a lot, sorry!” and then come in hot with a few towels if Buddy tries to climb on their lap.
I’ve seen it happen with strangers, too. We’ll go to the park, and other dog owners or just random folks pass us by. At first, they think he’s adorable because he’s got a big, friendly face. But then they notice that the front of his chest is basically a built-in bib, drenched in drool, and it’s like some invisible bubble pops. They might pat him on the head (cautiously) then politely excuse themselves. I can’t help feeling protective and defensive about it—like, he’s still a sweet dog, and he can’t help how he’s built.
And it’s not just drool either. Sometimes it’s the full-blown shaking of the head that sends saliva spattering in every direction. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to apologize when his slobber literally lands on someone’s shoes, or, worse, their legs. People respond differently—some just laugh it off, some look visibly horrified, and some even snap, “That’s so gross!”
It gets to me. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Because as much as I want to shrug off the stares and the snide comments, it sometimes feels like I’m failing Buddy. I can’t make him less drooly. Trust me, I’ve tried adjusting his diet, changing his bowls, making sure he drinks from these special no-spill containers. It’s just how he is. One vet told me he’s genetically predisposed to produce more saliva. He’s healthy; he’s happy—just chronically slobbery.
But here’s where the guilt really sets in: I’ve noticed that since I adopted Buddy, my social circle has shrunk. It’s not like people have come out and said “We’re not coming over because your dog drools too much.” But I sense a slow, subtle distancing. Friends who used to drop by often will suddenly come by less. One in particular told me she couldn’t handle the thick drool on her pants after sitting on my couch. Apparently, she sat right in a little puddle he’d left behind. Not fun, I get it. But also… that’s my life now, every day.
I’ve also worried about potential romantic interests. I mean, the last time I had someone over, Buddy promptly jumped onto her lap and left behind a solid smear of saliva on her new blouse. I grabbed some napkins, tried to dab it off, and she was polite but clearly grossed out. Things fizzled after that. I can’t say it’s entirely because of Buddy, but it sure didn’t help. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll have to literally screen potential dates with “Must love drool,” or something equally off-putting, just to skip the drama down the road.
The thing is, though, I can’t even imagine giving him up. I mean, I do sometimes have these fleeting thoughts of “What if he’d be better off with someone who doesn’t mind the drool? Or someone who has a big yard so he can be outside more?” Then I quickly realize that’s insane—I’m already that person who loves him deeply, so there’s no question he’s better off here, with me. He’s found his person, even if I’m not perfect.
For example, there was this one incident a few months ago where I had a friend from out of town staying the weekend. Buddy was so excited that he drooled everywhere, literally: the carpet, the couch, the hallway, the bed—somehow he ended up on the bed, which I normally keep closed off. My friend was trying to sleep, and Buddy just hopped up, drool dripping from his face, leaving these wet patches on the sheets. I can still hear the exasperated sigh my friend let out.
I saw the look in his eyes—like, “Why are you letting this dog basically ruin your stuff?” But here’s what my friend didn’t see: Buddy was so thrilled to meet a new person, so eager to be loved by literally anyone. The drool is the byproduct of that unstoppable excitability. So if Buddy has to wear a bandana 24/7, or if I have to keep a stash of towels on every doorknob, I’ll do it. I’m not punishing him for being who he is. Sure, it’s messy, but love is messy sometimes.
I do worry about how lonely I’ve gotten, though. My circle keeps shrinking, as I said, and sometimes I feel like I have to choose between my dog and having guests over. I can’t just lock Buddy away in another room whenever someone visits. That feels cruel, and also, it’s pointless. He’ll bark, whine, and probably drool on the door. So I try to clean as best I can, warn people in advance, and hope for the best. Some are understanding, some politely decline invites. Others come but stand the entire time so they don’t have to sit on the furniture.
I know there’s no magic bullet here. He’s not going to stop drooling overnight, and I’m not going to rehome him. So that leaves me in this weird emotional limbo, where I’m proud of the fact that I haven’t given up on him… but I’m sad that others aren’t quite as open-hearted. And maybe that’s just life sometimes: we do the best we can, we love who we love (even if they’re drool monsters), and we accept that not everyone will want to share that with us.
But let me share a bit of light, because it’s not all gloom and sad stories of me wiping spit off my jeans. There was this moment not too long ago that reminded me I’m on the right path. We were at the dog park, and Buddy ran right up to this little girl who was playing with a tennis ball. I braced myself for her reaction—would she be scared, disgusted, or what? But instead, she just giggled, patted his head, and exclaimed how silly he looked with “all that doggy drool.” Her parents were a little wary, but they saw how gentle Buddy was. They let her feed him a treat. And in that moment, Buddy had drool basically rolling down his chin, but the girl didn’t bat an eyelash. She looked at me and said, “He must love you so much.”
I almost cried. Seriously. Kids can be so pure and free of judgment. If anything, she was fascinated by his slobber, not repulsed by it. It’s one of those moments I cling to when I feel isolated because of how people react. That little girl didn’t see “Ugh, drool.” She saw “Wow, a big gentle dog who’s happy and friendly.” And that’s exactly who Buddy is. I guess that’s what keeps me going—the knowledge that not everyone will judge him (or me) for the never-ending supply of saliva. Some will look past it and see the big heart underneath.
I’d be lying if I said it’s easy. There are nights where I’m just plain exhausted. I’ll flop down on my couch after a long day, and Buddy will come rest his big head on my lap, drool soaking through my sweatpants. And I think, “Man, is this my life now?” But then I feel the warmth of his body, I see that unconditional adoration in his eyes, and I know I’m his entire world. He’s also become my world, in a sense. We’re in it together, drool or no drool.
Sure, sometimes I get frustrated. Sometimes I question if I’m doing the right thing by not setting more boundaries, or by not training him differently, or by not investing in some special drool-proof furniture. But he’s not a piece of property to fix. He’s a living soul who just happens to produce way more saliva than average. And he’s part of my life in a way I never thought a dog could be.
People have drifted away, but maybe I’ll find new connections with people who are dog lovers, people who aren’t scared off by a little (okay, a lot) of drool. Maybe I’ll connect with folks who understand that behind that slobber is a dog who’s affectionate, loyal, and slightly goofy in the best possible way. And maybe, over time, I’ll get better at balancing the hygiene aspect so it’s not such a big shock for visitors. Who knows?
For now, I’m holding onto the joys: the belly rub sessions where he flops over and snorts contentedly, the way he wags his entire backside when I come home, the silly, open-mouthed grin he flashes when we’re on a walk. It’s all so worth it, even if it means I spend half my time cleaning.
And that’s where I am right now. Tired, sometimes lonely, but definitely not giving up on my best friend. I wish I could say I had some triumphant ending to share, like “Buddy magically stopped drooling and everyone loves him now!” But life doesn’t always tie up in a neat bow. Maybe we’ll get there in our own messy way, or maybe we won’t. All I know is that I can’t let him go. Not for a little drool. Not for a lot of drool. Not for anything.
Thanks for reading this long vent, and for letting me get this off my chest. It means a lot to know there are people out there—maybe quietly lurking—who understand what it’s like to love an imperfect creature with your whole heart.
If you’re in the same boat, please know you’re not alone. Sometimes, the messy dogs are the ones who teach us the most about unconditional love.
I still hope one day I’ll find the right people who will walk toward Buddy and me, instead of away. But for now, it’s just us and our towels, figuring it all out one drool-soaked day at a time.