“Scooter, listen. Is it true that dogs like to lick a person’s face because of strong smells and taste? Someone asked me why dogs like to lick us.”

 

I pushed Scooter back from our pillows. My husband’s face was buried under bed covers in retreat from Scooter’s happy hopes for kisses.

 

“No! Scooter. No licking!” came the man’s muffled cry.

We couldn’t stop laughing long enough to seriously demand anything of the animal with the middle name, Sublime. But Scooter had been listening.

 

“And ears and feet,” said the four-legged, 27-pounder still in his serious search for a way under bedcovers. He knows instinctively about a person’s Eccrine and Apocrine sweat glands.

 

“You guys are a fluid feast of salt, protein, and stuff,” said he. “Put your tongue on your arm.”

“I did.

“Salty, yes?”

He was right. Even with fewer taste buds than people, dogs have mastery over the five main taste categories: sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and savory. A little lick brings great rewards.

 

When next we were together at my desk, We talked again about licking. Human noses and eyes have apocrine glands producing a liquid Scooter can smell a mile away. Our cheeks and forehead—the salty eccrine gland stuff. Tasty stuff, all of it.

 “And hands?” I asked.

 Scooter gave me one of those whale-eye looks. He was growing impatient.

 “You don’t even have to say anything when you return home after being gone a while.  With a quick lick of your hand I know where you’ve been and who you’ve been with. You petted Koa.” He wasn’t done.

“You know how well I smell stuff.”
“You’ve made it clear.”

“Thousands of times better than you guys. It’s that vomeronasal organ inside my nose.”
“Right.”

“Remember that neighborhood Dobermann that curled up his top lip, and flare his nose at us? Remember that?”

“I do. He was behind a fence, but you hopped right to your ‘hide’ position.”

“I wasn’t so much hiding as trying to protect you.”

“No matter,” I said.

“Well, that Dobermann was opening up his vomeronasal organ to better catch our odors.”

“And what does this have to do with licking?”

“I’m getting to it. If that dog had wanted even more information, he would have licked the air. That’s how even more smell-carrying molecules gets to a dog’s brain. He tasted us on the air. He knew you were afraid.

 “Mom, you want to know more about why dogs lick? Could be stress. Could be submission. Could be cleaning up. Could be affection. Could be . . .”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You guys aren’t the only ones who affectionately kiss faces. We dogs do that with dog friends. And we do that with people we love . . . if they let us. And why wouldn’t we?  Licking releases endorphins in our brains. This creates calm.”

“I wish.”

“You said, what?”

“Nothing. Go on,”

“Bitches lick newborn pups to clean and stimulate them. So, clearly, we learn right from birth that licking is both pleasing and necessary. Puppies lick to show affection. You really don’t want to discourage that.”

“Right.”

“Of course, we do body tending with our tongues. We . . .”

“That’s probably enough,” I said politely.

Scooter jumped down from my desk. He wasn’t finished. “Could be something stuck in a tooth, you know. Or a tooth that hurts.”

“So, we should pay attention if licking persists? I get it.”

“It could be a show of sheer pleasure if a dog licks the air when you scratch his ears.”

“Got it.”

It was quiet for a moment. Scooter assumed a sploot position on the office carpet, put his muzzle across his front paws, then suddenly lifted that shaggy head.

“Mom!” he said. “You know that cold yoghurt you got for me at Mud Bay?”
“I do. It’s in the freezer.”

“You want a calmer, more relaxed me?

“Scooter!’”

“By the way,” he said, following me to the kitchen, his tongue reaching toward his nose. “You’re making cornbread.”

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