Our adventure dog is 75 pounds of fur and love—and copious amounts of slobber. He seemingly sheds his weight in fur every day. It’s a nearly impossible task to keep it from penetrating every cubic inch of our small living space.
Then there’s the slobber. He drools like a maniac while we’re getting his meals ready. He also drinks his water with gusto—droplets flying, tsunamis surging from his water bowl. Then he proceeds to walk around with his jowls dripping all over the floor—and anything else from head height down—like a canine Jackson Pollock with a fresh canvas in front of him.
Back when we had a house, Toby did the same things, of course. So on the one hand, there was more area to clean but you could walk around it if necessary. In our 200-square-foot scenario—of which he’s only allowed in about 60 percent—it’s concentrated into a slimy, soggy, obstacle course worthy of a Tough Mudder.
Stepping barefoot into an unseen puddle of slobber is a supremely unpleasant experience. It also has a dangerous viscosity. You’ll find your foot suddenly sliding across the floor and out from under you if you’re not agile enough in the moment to counter the sudden lack of traction. As you can imagine, we usually have some sort of footwear on most of the time. Between Toby’s drool and the trailer LEGO scenario, we spend a lot of time sweeping and wiping up slobber.
The cherry on top of this glamorous full-time RVer sundae? That’s the deer-in-the-headlights moments when you realize you’ve left something you don’t want covered in drool in the most dangerous place of all: the zone in the immediate radius surrounding his water bowl—what J calls his “slobratory.” That area stretches from the mid point of our eight-foot-wide toy hauler over to the half-way point of our wheel well storage area under the picture window and back down to the end of my bench. Yes I get drooled on a lot. But there’s no better place to put his bowls in our setup so we manage it.
But you’ll never see me move so fast as when I realize I’ve carelessly stowed something like my hat or camera on our shelf under the window—a prime danger zone. Or when I’ve not entirely tucked my boots under my bench and he decides to come over for an ear scratch after slaking his thirst, my boots directly under the Niagara Falls of slobber that’s about to fill them to the brim.
And, oh help you, if he decides to do one of his frequent grizzly-bear-sized shakes right after a big drink. Forget Jackson Pollock. Now he’s Gallagher and you’re sitting in the front row without a poncho.
Life with this lovable goofball certainly keeps us on our toes. Or at least tip-toeing around his puddles.