Phillard
A story from a different time
Rodeos were a big part of our existence as a family back in the 1960’s and ’70’s. They were a hot ticket in Nebraska then and we had many events scheduled throughout every summer. I would attend, I was a kid and had no choice, but I never really leaned in. Rodeos did nothing for me. I was just wired differently.
The carnivals were often in town at the same time as the rodeos and I was drawn to the action over there. I remember at one of the fairs, I paid a dime to go look inside a stock trailer. Some carny had a ewe in there with five legs. He had a sign about it right by his rip-off ring toss game. I stared at that sign for the longest time.
“See the 5 legged Sheep! 10 cents.”
Man, I wanted to see that sheep. I really wanted to see that sheep. I knew I could if I wanted it bad enough. I had the required entrance fee and I had it on me. I was given 50 cents at the beginning of the night and there was still plenty of it left. I NEEDED to see that sheep.
I paid the man. I went back behind the carnival tents and found the trailer. I approached and stood there staring for the longest time. The ewe had a black face and hadn’t been sheared in like fifty years. She stood in the middle of the trailer looking back at me. The trailer was filthy. It reeked of ammonia and sheep dung. I shrugged it off.
“What do we have here, then?”
I looked closer. There it was. The fifth leg was short and stubby and emerged from what appeared to be the exact middle of her belly. I could tell it was real. I hadn’t been hustled out of my dime.
The rides, noise and fun were all going on, out there, but I was back here, behind it all, where the carnies lurked. It was dark and quiet back there and the stink from her cage made it all the more real. I couldn’t get enough of this bizarre looking creature.
As I peered in, I thought about my Ripley’s Believe It Or Not book back in my room at home. I wondered if this sheep was listed in there. I figured it probably was. I wondered if anyone had taken any time to train this sheep and try to get her to stand on this one middle leg or something like that. Then maybe get her to spin around on it or hop on it.
My mind was swimming with all of the possibilities if I were the owner of this ewe. That leg is just hanging there, I’m thinking, if a guy could get her hopping on it, this would be a 25 cent entry fee, easy.
“You wanna look a little longer, kid? That’ll be another dime.”
“What?”
I was so deep into this hopping sheep idea, I’d thought myself into a zone. I panicked and skinned out of there and made my way back to the midway. My eyes were darting left to right as I walked, looking for more hand made signs that might fit the category of “Freak Show”. That multi-legged ewe had me wanting more. I was hooked.
I still had two more dimes. They were burning a hole in my pocket. Anybody got a two-headed calf? A cat with a unicorn horn? Come on. I’m loaded with entrance fee cash over here.
I ended up spending both remaining dimes on a ticket and went on a lame teacup ride with this punk kid I knew. I was sure that, as soon as I got off the ride, some greasy carny would show up with a hairless pig or something. The loser will probably want 20 cents to see it, too.
I got off, ditched the kid and made my way back to the rodeo bleachers. Being a spectator was free. At this point, free was all I could afford.
I climbed the bleachers and sat by my brother who was waiting dutifully for our dad and his team roping partner to be on deck. I couldn’t get that sheep out of my head. My eyes were wide open, but all I could see was that leg and that hoof, just hanging there.
“What’s the matter with you? You look like you just saw a ghost,” he said.
“No. No ghost. Something way better.” I paused. “Hey, for 20 cents, I can show you a sheep with five legs!” I opened my right hand big to display four fingers and a thumb. I’d snuck an extra entry fee in the deal to cover myself for a second look. I needed another crack at that sheep. I awaited his response.
“Say yes, say yes, say yes....”
“Shut your cake hole. Who’d pay to see that? Dad’s up next, pay attention.”
That didn’t work. I wonder if mom would wanna see it. Where is she...?
My older brother, Kelly, was heavily involved in the Little Britches Rodeo circuit back then. He rode bulls and bareback broncs. In around 1971, at about age 13, he’d earned a spot at the Little Britches National Finals in Littleton, Colorado.
The National Finals was a big deal. Many from our extended family made the trip and met us there. He was in first place in bull riding at the end of the second day. It was a three day event.
He was bucked off on the third day and only three other riders made it the full eight seconds. Kelly’s place was fourth. He was very hard on himself for missing first, second or third, but all of us were so proud of him we could have about burst.
“You took fourth place in your very first National competition?” everyone tried to tell him. “You beat out twenty-five or thirty other kids? And you are mad at yourself? Chin up and shoulders back, cowboy, you are a National Champion! We don’t care if fourth place has a trophy or not.”
That helped. His swagger returned immediately and his quest to come back next year began before we even left Colorado. He was in his element. That kid did love to rodeo.
Dad was all in too. Dad was a team roper. He thrived whenever he and his partner were in the gate with loops built and horses ready. Everything would go quiet right there for just a long second. Then the header would give the nod and that steer would come busting out of the chute determined to outrun them this time. He’d get a head start, but dad and his partner would be on him in a flash.
Kelly loved the rodeo. Dad loved the rodeo. I didn’t seem to fit in to any of it. I never really caught the bug. I was very okay with just being an observer.
Then one day, I have no idea what got into me, I decided to cowboy up and throw my hat in the ring.
“Dad” I remember saying, “I think you need to enter me in the next rodeo we go to for Kelly.”
He was visibly moved, and noticeably impressed. Up to that point, my complete lack of interest in anything rodeo was a fact everyone in the family had become used to.
I think when I told him, he could kind of see into the future in his minds’ eye as both his boys were stepping up onto some stage like Olympic athletes. In his vision, he smiled big and his chest puffed out as HIS kids, both Kerchal boys, were being shrouded with great honor after riding and staying on some very rank and mangy bulls.
He drifted out of his dad-vision and looked at me.
“What’re you thinking you’d like to do in the rodeo, Todd?”
“Goat tying” was my reply. The only possible answer capable of crushing my father’s proudest moment.
If you’re not familiar, goat tying was not a testosterone producing event, neither for the athlete, nor for the spectator. Goat tying was only for the ones who were willing to stick a toe in to test the water temp, but unwilling to actually take a running dive into the deep end. I saw no bulls in my future as a rodeo star.
Dad got me a goat. I’ll never forget the day he brought it home for me to practice on. His pick-up wasn’t running and he drove up with it in the car. The goat was in the trunk.
Dad said he had a surprise for me, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. He motioned me over by the trunk of the car. He stuck his key in, turned it, the trunk lid shot up and this brownish grey blur sort of ejected itself out of there.
Whatever this thing was, it screamed like a human as it leapt past me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. The creature took off at the speed of light and only stopped when it came to a wall of barbed wire.
“Uh, what was that thing dad?”
“It’s a goat, Todd. You need a goat to practice on right? Go see if you can catch him. He might be a little ticked, it was pretty hot in that trunk.”
The goat was not happy. Neither was my mom, it was her car. We kids spent some time luring the goat into the barn where we then roped him and dragged him into a stall. Dad spent this time luring mom back into the house to try and calm her down.
I spent the rest of that day sweet talking the goat and letting him know everything was going to be okay. I was lying to this goat. It wasn’t going to be okay at all. He was about to become the lowest ranking member in our livestock’s pecking order.
He needed to mellow out though. I needed an even keeled goat, not a psycho goat. He was climbing the walls in that stall. All of this anxiety wasn’t going to work for me. I gave him some of the special grain dad had for his horses. He began to trust me.
We lived on a place out south of McCook, Nebraska then and there was plenty of room to conduct some serious training. Practice began the very next morning.
I would get on my horse and gallop at full speed to the other end of the area we set up. My new goat was tied to a stake in the pasture there. I would take off from the start gate, get about 35 feet from him, pull back on the reins, jump off and run as fast as I could to my target.
The goal was to catch the goat, lift him and drop him on his side. Then grab the small rope I had clinched in my teeth called a “piggin’ string” and tie three of his hooves together in a perfect, well executed motion. Remember, that was the GOAL.
It is important for me to tell you here that the goat outweighed me by about seventeen pounds.
It is also important to tell you that when you charge at a goat full blast on a twelve hundred pound horse, then jump off and run toward the goat, he doesn’t just stand there and wait for you. As I said, the goat was staked. When I galloped toward him, the goat did what all goats do when they’re scared half out of their mind.
There were practice runs where I would get to the goat in record time, flying, I tell you. I would jump off the horse and spend like a minute and a half chasing that stupid thing around in a circle while he was running from me as if I had a butcher knife. I maybe only caught the practice goat two or three times. And the whole business with the piggin’ string was a complete disaster.
It all started out bad, quickly dwindled to worse and the goat was losing faith in me. The trust we’d built between us in the stall on the day before was beginning to wane.
The rest of these practices ended in my running after the goat so much that he started to think it was a game. I would chase him for a while in a circle and he would chase me for a while in a circle. I’m very sure that my dad, a very proud cowboy, was hoping none of his cowboy buddies would pull up into our yard unannounced and witness this spectacle. It wasn’t good.
When I finally got to the rodeo, it was very anticlimactic. There were like ten of us kids and our horses, all aged 11 and all lined up for our turn. I went toward the end. I would have finished second to last, but my cowboy hat blew off and they tack on three seconds for that.
I took last. I was pretty long in the face. I swore I would never step foot in Oakley, Kansas again.
On the way home, I informed my dad that rodeo may not be my thing. I knew he was relieved. So much so that when we got back he said we could keep the goat anyway. My younger sister Missy and I were thrilled.
That goat followed us everywhere and became our new best friend. Kelly wanted nothing to do with that stinking goat. He was thirteen. When you’re thirteen, you just don’t associate with goats.
Wherever we went, Missy and I would have a whole pack of dogs following us, and that goat. We couldn’t get enough of him. This goofy domesticated beast had a ton of personality.
Regular goats are genetically connected to mountain goats. They are just as sure footed and like to view the world from the highest point around, just like their alpine cousins.
It’s pretty flat out south of McCook. Our goat did find a favorite spot, however. It was the top of the cab of dad’s pickup. Choosing that spot may have been the result of a grudge the goat was carrying. He may not have completely forgiven dad for being stuffed into a trunk in the middle of July.
It seems impossible, but a goat can actually leave permanent footprints in steel. After just a week or so, it looked like Santa and all nine reindeer had been up there having some kind of party.
This new pet soon changed his mind about the top of the pickup though, after some woefully aggressive coaxing from dad. People don't believe it when they hear it, but an adult male can actually throw a goat. Dad and the goat never really...bonded.
Our goat looked long and hard for a new spot and finally found some real estate he could call his own. It was the top of a six inch wide fence post. This would be his new permanent perch. It was other-worldly seeing him standing up there. If we could have just gotten him to crow like a rooster, we could have called in the folks at Ripley’s.
We decided he needed a name. Missy liked Phyllis. Goats are pretty gender neutral so, okay, Phyllis. I, however, wanted to name him Willard.
We compromised. Our goat was named Phillard. From that point forward, he was never hog-tied or staked out again. Phillard’s days of abuse were over. On the day he was named, he began his climb up from the bottom rung of the pecking order.
It wasn’t all rosey for Phillard after that. He was still disrespected, a little. We did paint him blue a couple of times. Pretty tough to garner any kind of barnyard respect when you’re a blue goat.
One morning, as I watched him jump up and land on that tiny fence post with all four hooves, I realized this goat had potential. I knew I needed to get him hopping on his hind legs, or something...
I remember reaching into my pocket and jingling all of those make believe coins as I considered the possibilities. Having this act as a side show, my pockets would soon be jam-packed.
“P.T. Barnum, you got nothing on me,” I thought to myself.
I closed my eyes. I could see myself making up the sign.
“See Phillard, The Dancing Goat! 25 cents.”
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