Shirley's Folly

Everyone is excited when my mother gets us a mid-sized black standard poodle, officially registered as ‘Shirley’s Folly’ because she thinks it might be a big mistake. From her point of view that’s a pretty good guess. Folly is the perfect dog for a bunch of rambunctious children, and no doubt a continuing headache for my mother. He is a free spirit and loves fully. He roams the countryside looking for adventure.

This dog had distemper at one point before he comes to us, and while cured of it, his teeth are tinged with brown and he has god-awful, horrible breath. All of which makes me think Mom got a discount on him. In the mornings, he looks for an open bedroom door and makes his way to your bedside. Then he’ll wheeze into your face if he can, a rough way to wake up, except his tail is always wagging. The Happy Breath product has no effect and it’s virtually impossible to get the nozzle in Folly’s mouth to give a good spray.

These days there are few fences and no leash laws, none that we pay attention to anyway. Neighborhood dogs often run loose, and Folly is one of them. We hear reports that he eats cat food set out on the stoops at several neighbors’ houses. He climbs the chain link fence putting foot after foot into the holes and jumps over to Earl and Dolly’ yard and craps on their front sidewalk. He roams far and wide, and I think some of his journeys may go something like this:

Head out the back of the yard in the direction of the river. Come across something dead and roll in it. Continue down to the river and jump into the dank canal to cool off. Dry off lying in the sun next to a lock house. Trot along the tow path and maybe even down to the riverside, where dead fish parts sometimes litter the banks. Roll in them.

Take another break sunning himself then head back home, hopefully arriving right around dinner time for the full effect of his unique parfum. Many is the time we scrub the now hardened crust off Folly’s back, while he grins as if he knows how awful it is.

Sometimes if Folly doesn’t come home until after dark, we start calling for him. And on occasion there are teenagers hanging out getting drunk in front of the empty building at the top of 78th Street. Every time we call, “Folly,” we get a snotty echo, “Oh, Fooooooooolly” complete with raucous laughter.

My birthday is Christmas Day but my mother gives me a party in October. A chocolate cake is made and left on the high counter. Mom takes me and my three guests to a roller rink in Rockville, where we rent skates, strap them on, and flail around the rink. An organist plays old favorites (really old favorites) in the upper balcony. Mom is happy to be shut of us for a couple of hours while she does errands.

We come back to the house for cake and presents, surprising Folly, who is standing on the counter with chocolate icing all over his snout. At least half the cake is gone. This time my mother is faster than he is. She grabs his collar, dragging him off the counter and to the back door and throwing him out. He shakes himself and heads out to the deep back yard, no offense taken.

Dinner at our house is preceded by cocktails for the adults. One night the food is ready early, so we all take our places at the table to start the meal. I glance into the living room to see my mother’s extra dry vodka martini on the rocks with a twist sitting on the coffee table. And there is Folly, lapping it up.

A hue and cry go up and Mom races to the living room. Folly is gone and so is the martini.

Folly torments our elderly neighbor Franklin Daniels, who lives two doors down, just beyond Junior’s house. Franklin keeps chickens, and Folly will link up with a neighborhood cat and send it over the high chicken wire fence to pluck a bird out of the crowd while he stands watch. The cat climbs back over the fence, and then the partners in crime race out our dirt road and go behind Spate’s Garage building on 78th Street to divide the spoils.

I once look out our dining room window to see Franklin yelling at Folly. Franklin picks up a big rock and prepares to launch it at the dog, only he miscalculates and falls over backwards, hitting the ground like a plank. I think this is pretty funny, even though Franklin is an old man.

Somehow, something changes this dynamic, though. One day when I look out the same window, I am stunned to see Franklin sitting in his plastic chair just outside the basement door. And who is sitting beside him? Folly. Franklin even has his hand lying on the dog’s neck. After that, it isn’t unusual to see Franklin walking through his rows of corn with Jake and Folly at his heels.

Sometimes things just change, but not all things.

My mother has a partially successful flower garden in the front yard, and every spring looks forward to the tulips and daffodils blooming. Invariably, Folly jumps off the front porch, runs once or twice around the yard to gain speed for his finale, then he darts down the garden bed, snapping off flower heads as he goes.

Sorry, Mom.

The front yard is also the place where Folly gets his baths. Bath time is like a Keystone Kops short. The dog watches preparations from the front porch as one or two of us go to Mr. Daniels’ house to borrow a big metal washtub. As we haul it back to our house, I get the impression the dog is laughing at us.

We start to fill the tub with water from the hose and pour in some shampoo, calling Folly to come. He looks at the tub as if to say, “You’re joking, right?” And then he’s off. We chase him with the hose as he makes loop-de-loops around us, always just out of reach. He stays in the front yard when he could easily charge down the driveway and disappear into the wilds of the back yard. Finally, he stops, panting. We are far wetter than he is. He gives in to the bath, but not with good grace.

One day, Junior’s children are running back and forth from their yard to ours. As Jake watches from the porch, Folly lopes up to the slowest and youngest child and grabs him by the seat of his pants. The boy, Stevie, is jerked off his feet and Folly drags him up our front yard. He chooses a tree, and begins to dig a hole—while still holding the child’s pants in his mouth—apparently planning to save Stevie for later. Jake rescues the boy, much to Folly’s disgust.

There came a day when a pick-up truck unknown to us arrives in the driveway. The driver is in tears as he knocks on the back door. He has hit and killed Folly as the dog darted across MacArthur Blvd. chasing after a bitch in heat. The driver feels awful and finds out where Folly belongs. The dog is well known to the neighbors who send him to our house. Folly is lying in the bed of the truck. Only Tyler and I are home.

The driver is very upset and we rush to reassure him that it isn’t his fault. After he leaves, Tyler carries Folly behind the garage, where multiple smaller pets are interred, and buries him, refusing to let me help and chasing me away.

We are devastated.

Well, maybe not my mother.