I love autumn leaves. The way they dapple yards and sidewalks with splashes of color. The way they smell in the swirling, windbreaker breeze. The way they dance with golden charm and blushing grace on the backdrop of sunny, sky-blue days.
The way they get stuck in my boxer’s drool.
Of course, a leaf or other debris glued to my boxer’s drool isn’t exactly an anomaly. My boxer, Winnie, drools all the time. When she’s happy, sad, excited, scared, or nervous. When she has an upset tummy from eating used tissues, soiled napkins, Easter chocolates, bar soap, gum (our fault—we left them lying on the floor within easy reach). Or rabbit poo, deer poo, feathers, the McDonald’s bag someone threw in our ditch (her fault—who in their right mind would eat that stuff?).
It’s not the comeliest of habits, I admit, and certainly not lady-like. But we love Winnie anyway and definitely prefer strings of saliva swinging from her mouth to her propensity to pass gas with room-clearing ferocity.
On the bright side, we never need to buy WD-40. (Just kidding.)
Because my husband and I want to savor autumn’s colorful canopy before the leaves drop and another toe-numbing Michigan winter sets in, we jog in town as often as we can. And when Winnie was younger (she’s a doggy senior citizen now),we often took her with us, since we needed to give her plenty of exercise to keep her from bouncing all over the house and driving me crazy. And Winnie loved our runs—the sound of neighborhood dogs barking, the alluring scents on every tree trunk and fire hydrant, the hope of finally catching a preoccupied squirrel. But the people who were out and about got her most excited.
Did I mention that Winnie drools when she gets excited?
Believe it or not, the slimy excretion emanating from her laughing mouth did nothing to deter people from stopping in their tracks and asking, “Can I pet your dog?”
Each time, my first reaction was to consider asking, “Why would you want to do that?” Because, by this time, frothy drool covered her mouth and hung down either one or both sides of her floppy jowls. Or, on occasion, a vigorous head shake had flung the ribbon of drool upward, causing it to wrap around the top of her head. And these people wanted to pet her?
My only conclusion was, and still is, that Winnie entrances everyone. Maybe it’s her rich fawn and white coat and striking markings. Or her stub tail rotating her entire rear end. Personally, I think it’s her bug eyes that draws people in and makes them oblivious to what’s happening lower down her face.
But instead of looking at these expectant people like they had two heads, I’d smile and say, “Sure. But I want to give you a heads up; she’ll slime you.”
A statement that never stopped anyone.
Winnie doesn’t do anything in halves, so meeting someone involves sneezing, snorting, prancing, and finally gluing her body to her new friends’ legs. And when her besotted admirers gave her one last pat and stepped away, they’d attempt to wipe sticky slobber from their hands and a plethora of little dog hairs from their pants. And across their thighs? A line of foamy dribble.
Can’t say I didn’t warn them.
What does a salivating boxer have to do with our big God? I could write about the things people usually write about their dog—that they exude unconditional love and loyalty. But I think Winnie is God’s way of saying…
Greet new friends with unabashed enthusiasm.
Laugh at the future.
Never give of yourself in halves.
Don’t worry about a little drool on your face.
This autumn, our graying Winnie can no longer keep up with us when we jog. Instead, she prefers a simple amble through town, where she still sniffs fire-red bushes, tries to make friends with hissing kitties, and pricks her ears at lingering squirrels.
And still gathers leaves in her trailing drool.