i used to live in central topeka which means every time francis (my deaf catahoula) escaped restraint with me in tow, area prostitues and prescription codeine dealers shouted assistance: “…girl you crazy runnin’ in them slippers…” and “…looks like he’s loose.” the most time i ever spent chasing him was two hours. i was on foot, in a cocktail dress, in low heels and still digesting thanksgiving dinner. deaf dogs get hit by cars and francis was the number one pet of all time so i chased him, crying, out of fear and frustration. at 10th and washburn i almost gave up. he was snooping around a parking lot behind stormont vail hospital, head down but with his eyes fixed on me. i sat down on the sidewalk, patted the concrete, gave him the “snack fingers” (the look at my hand there’s an air treat for you trick). nothing. then running away. i caught him finally after trapping him on a degraded, enclosed porch. when repeating this story today, crackyard was born. a neighborhood crackyard defines the rear property of a ramshackle rental, generally forgotten by tennants and landlords. grass to dirt ratio: 90/10. dandelion to grass ratio: 90/10. muddy plastic to organic matter ratio: 50/50. generally contains the following elements: rusty BBQ grill, muddy tie-out chain with fur, muddy water bowl, scattered dog kibble, half-buried happy meal figures, a woozy fence, broken cinder blocks.
contextual use:
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“…i swear if you make me chase you through another fucking crackyard you goddamned dog…”
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“…bonnie, use the side entrance–the rain’s made the crackyard all swampy.”
Tags: crack, dogs, frustration, prescription medication, whores
