Old Yeller

When I was a child, my father had a rangy palomino gelding with golden eyes like you find in orange cats. He was a great ranch horse with lots of heart, but he loved to buck. And he was good at it — very good.

The guy who’d brought the gelding to auction claimed he was a trained cow horse, and Dad was in desperate need of one. Dad didn’t mind that the horse seemed a little edgy, just as long as he was strong and fast enough to catch a cow on the range. A deal was made.

Slim had an attitude problem from day one. He had a tendency to tip one ear in the rider’s direction as the rest of him was skittering away. That being said, he wasn’t difficult to handle from the ground — if you paid sharp attention.

It turned out he was a pretty good rope horse. Once he was put onto a cow, he’d follow her through the thickest trees at a full gallop. He was no coward.

But he’d buck once a day . . . hard.

Dad had to constantly ride deep in the saddle because the timing of this bucking session was on a schedule determined by Slim. He might choose first thing in the morning or wait until later. And he gave no warning.

After being piled in a heap in the grass a few times, Dad switched out his roping saddle for a bronc saddle, and it became a competition. I don’t know which of them was more stubborn. The palomino didn’t hate people; he just loved the game. After he’d buck my dad off, he’d stand there and wait for him to get back on. I swear he had a big grin on his face.

One day the horse was having a particularly energetic day, and he bucked seven times. He’d wait until Dad was leaned forward to throw his rope to catch a cow, and he’d pile on the brakes and go to bucking. If Dad was fast enough, he could ride him; if not, he’d better look for the softest spot he could find.

On the seventh bucking session, Dad went flying, his shoulder jammed into a badger hole, and his head slammed onto the ground. Seven vertebrae were “adjusted”, and Dad was lucky not to have a broken neck.

Usually, Slim would stop after he’d bucked, but this time he kept going. He bucked so hard, the saddle skidded forward until his front legs and nose were all that were sticking out. It looked like Slim was trying to get out of a too-tight sweater. After the horse had fallen to the ground, Dad’s hired help, a quiet man named Little Jim, dismounted and walked over to the prostrate horse. He lifted the edge of the saddle blanket and peeked in at Slim’s glaring golden eyes.

In a slow soft voice, Jim said, “Well, there ya are, Old Yeller — which gave the horse an instant change of name.

Old Yeller commenced to struggle again, and in a few minutes, the saddle, blanket, and bridle were scattered across the range. He bucked until he’d kicked off every item of gear he’d been wearing. Then he galloped to the top of a nearby hill, stopped in silhouette, and screamed in triumph like a stallion.

Dad, in major pain, picked himself up and dusted himself off — again. Then and there he decided he was going to ride that horse every day until he quit bucking. I know! I know! My dad was bordering on crazy at that point. He’d just had a major head injury, and he wasn’t used to losing out to a horse! Fortunately, I didn’t inherit this level of bullheadedness — I hope.

The next morning as he limped to the barn to saddle Old Yeller, my mom met him there with a loaded .303. Since mom wouldn’t hurt a fly and had never shot a gun, Dad asked what she was planning on doing with the rifle. She said since he was obviously dumb enough to keep riding that horse until it killed him, she was going to put Old Yeller in the ground.

Dad had to admit defeat. If the rope horse loved bucking so much, he might as well go into show business where he’d work less than ten minutes a year. His new job was as a bareback bronc. Few cowboys could ride him, and if they did, they won the competition.

Old Yeller was his stage name, and he performed for three years before perishing in a highway accident en route to a rodeo. He won the title of Bareback Horse of the Year all three years he was in show business, and he was always selected to perform at the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, Nevada — a phenomenal accomplishment for a rope horse.

I was saddened to hear of his untimely demise, but it seems some horses have a destiny. Old Yeller absolutely loved the lights, the excitement, and the attention of the rodeo. He especially loved throwing cowboys to the ground.