Jack Thornton

A dictum within the Hippocratic Oath instructs both physicians and veterinarians to "do no harm," a no-brainer obviously, but sometimes things just fall apart.

In the summer of 1977, I was called into the country one sunny afternoon to routinely tube worm two quarter horse yearling colts. The procedure calls for a long rubber or plastic nasogastric tube to be passed through a nostril and then carefully down the esophagus into the stomach. A solution is then pumped into the gut to kill various internal parasites. Most horses accept this invasion with remarkable calm. Some do not.

As I mixed the worming solution and prepared my gear, two young men approached me, each leading a colt from the nearby barn. Suddenly there was a commotion.

I looked up to see the first man doubled over grasping his arm while his colt fled back toward the barn. Running quickly to assist him, it appeared his arm had been broken when his yearling reared up, striking him with a foreleg.



Only just begun

As I began helping the injured man, another disturbance suddenly arose. The second colt also reared up, jerking the halter rope from its leader's grasp, and pitched over backward striking the back of its head on the ground.

Now I was dealing with an injured man and an injured horse. Forget about tube worming.

We summoned assistance to get the first man to the hospital and I returned to the injured colt still on the ground. Its rapid back and forth eye movements indicated some degree of neurological damage. Hopefully it was only a minor concussion.

After giving the colt a few minutes to recover, we decided to try to get him back into the safety of the barn. A short but wide dirt road cut into a hillside lay between us and the barn with a sloping dirt bank on one side and a steep gully falling away on the other.



Over the edge

Following several attempts to get him up, we calmly coaxed the young horse along the road, but again he suddenly spooked and, despite our efforts on the lead rope, made a wide staggering half circle and plunged over the steep embankment.

He fell perhaps 12 feet, coming to rest in the upper branches of a dense bush-like tree. Suspended only by this foliage, he hung there on his back with nothing more between him and the bottom but a steep 60-foot slope. Amazingly the horse lay there fairly calm without thrashing about.

By now the owner of the colts was there. We discussed strategy and decided to attempt rescue using a front-lift tractor already on the property. After tranquilizing our patient, using lariats we fashioned a make-shift sling and attached it to the front-lift.



Horse in a tree

Carefully we began hoisting the horse from the tree.

We almost made it but, at the last moment, struggling violently he broke out of the harness and tumbled dangerously down the slope to the bottom of the gully.

I expected the colt to be fatally injured from the fall but dashing down the slope I found him on his sternum, legs folded beneath, looking fairly bright. Upon further inspection, I found no other injuries except some minor skin abrasions.

At the bottom of the gully was a nearby corral, and we were able to get the colt on its feet and into this closed security. Besides a wobbly gait, our patient's vital signs were normal.

Emotionally exhausted, I poured the worming solution on the ground, packed up my gear and returned to the vet hospital some 31/2 hours later, soaked with sweat and covered with dirt. Dr. Bell looked at me with both relief and concern, asking where I had been.

"Well," I said, not knowing where to even begin, "You're not going to believe this ...."



Jack Thornton is a semiretired veterinarian.