From the Book
'Tales of Tails from Nebraska Veterinarians & Families'

I came across this story during my pet news research and was charmed by both the story and the simple feeling it gave me when I was through. The book, 'Tales of Tails from Nebraska Veterinarians & Families" is sold by mail, and all proceeds go to Nebraska veterinary students for scholarships. The Auxiliary to the Nebraska Veterinary Medical Association compiled it. Ordering information is included at the end of the story.

According to Linda Read Deeds of the North Platte Bulletin:

"like eating peanuts, once you start reading, you can’t stop."

The following story, “Lofty Goal,” by Nebraska North Platte resident Jerre Johnson, shows why.

Johnson served as Director of the University of Veterinary Diagnostic Lab in North Platte until he retired in 1999. This tale evidently took place elsewhere.

Horse call

“It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon on the plains of Nebraska,” Johnson wrote. “It was my weekend on call and I had put in a long Friday and Saturday. I was engrossed in one of my favorite Sunday activities…asleep in my recliner ‘watching’ a ballgame. The sun was hitting me through the patio…I was in hog heaven!

“Then my wife gently woke me stating that there was a call on the clinic line. I mumbled a not so pleasant hello. The caller informed me in a low authoritarian voice, ‘This is the Sheriff speaking.’

“My first thought was that somebody was pulling a fast one but I answered, ‘Yes Sir…what can I do for you?’ He replied that he needed help getting his horse down from the hayloft. Trying to keep my snickering under control, I asked if he had tried backing the horse down or covering its eyes before leading it down. (It always works on TV.)

“In a disgusted voice, he replied he had.

“Unable to identify the voice, I asked him where the barn was located. His reply was ‘behind the city swimming pool.’ I told him I traveled that street quite often and had never noticed a barn. He said you couldn’t see it from the road…it was down in the trees. I said there was no road leading to the trees. He replied that you had to jump the curb and follow the matted grass trail. My reply was, ‘If you are the Sheriff, what is your name and what color is your horse?’ I didn’t know the color of his horse but couldn’t think of any other question to be sure this wasn’t a crank call.

“A voice nearing phone rage answered both questions.

“The grass path led me down a sloping hill and there stood a small quaint stone barn. The Sheriff’s car was parked by the fence. Leaning on the car was the Sheriff. He was not a happy camper. I couldn’t decipher if he was mad at the horse or appalled by my inquisition over the phone.

“The Sheriff was of stocky build, 5’ 10,” somewhat barrel-chested and portly. His uniform was crisp and he wore a sharp Stetson. Our greeting wasn’t too cordial. He was thinking why did I get stuck with this smart-mouthed __ __ __ and I was cussing his regular vet for not taking Sunday afternoon calls.

“The stairs to the hayloft were in the center of the barn…they were narrow, steep, with no hand rails. The horse was in line with the stairs with her rear backed as far into the eaves as possible. Her stare was like a deer caught in the headlights. I patted her neck and talked to her with a soothing voice, telling her what a good horse she was and that everything was going to be all right.

“She wouldn’t move…horses know when you’re lying to them.

“After discussing the few options we had, we decided to tranquilize the horse and lead her back down the stairs. She didn’t flinch when I gave her the tranquilizer IV…what I thought was a standard dose plus 25 percent. After waiting 15 minutes, she hadn’t relaxed, nor would she leave the safety of the barn eaves.

“So I administered another dose IV. This time she relaxed and would be led around but would not go near the stairs. After another 10-15 minutes, I gave her a third tranquilizer IV. This time her head drooped, her legs got wobbly and I led her to the top of the stairs. I attached my lariat to her halter and dropped the rope down to a reluctant Sheriff and instructed him to coax her when I said, “Ready.”

“After all, it was his horse.

“Her head was hanging down about three steps, her front feet spread across the width of the stairs. She reminded me of Eeyore in “Winnie the Pooh.” I inched her hind legs forward and told the Sheriff, ‘Ready.’ I then gave the horse a push on the rump with my shoulder.

“The Sheriff said, ‘Here…,’ but by then she was soaring through the air…reminded me of the circus horses that high dive into a water tank with a maiden on their back. In that split-second I glanced down at the Sheriff. His eyes were large, his face pale. He had dropped the rope, knocked his hat off and was backing away from the stairs with his arms out like he was going to catch the horse. His mind said, ‘I’m going to be killed by my flying horse!’

“Well, that horse cleared all those steps with her front feet, and the two back ones just nicked the bottom step.

“When I reached the bottom steps the Sheriff was picking up his hat and I didn’t want to ask what he was thinking. I examined the feet and legs and walked her around to make sure she was okay. She was smiling, relieved to be down. There wasn’t a scratch anywhere, and no evidence she was ever tranquilized.

“I picked up my lariat and bag and placed them in the car. The shocked Sheriff pulled out his wallet and grumpily asked, ‘How much?’ I replied, ‘No charge.’ I didn’t have the nerve to say it was on the house.

“Several weeks later I was enjoying a city parade and sure enough, there was the Sheriff leading the posse, riding his perfectly healthy horse.”

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“Tales of Tails” is available from talesoftails@hotmail.com, or from Faye Smith – Tales of Tails, 1905 West Davey Road, Davey, NE 68336.

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