Sunday Stanza: The Castration of Smokestack Jack

Now I’ve stitched up bulls and I’ve birthed stuck sheep,
I’ve wrestled a mean llama that wouldn’t fall asleep.
But the tale that I tell—of blood, sweat, and fate—
Begins with a horse…and ends south of his gait.

The gelding was named old Smokestack Jack,
A 1200-pound bomb with hooves and a back
Like a freight train fused to a lightning bolt—
He’d never been cut, but he sure had his jolt.

I showed up calm with my tools in hand—
A syringe full of dreams and a castration plan.
The owners stood by with hope and a prayer,
While Jack gave a snort that said, “Don’t you dare.”

First came the syringe with a little xylazine,
To chill his spirit and dull the sheen.
Then butorphanol, a dose refined—
To fog up the sharpness of that equine mind.

Then in came ketamine—quick and true,
The drug of choice when the sky ain’t blue.
But mercy, it’s just a roll of the dice—
Will he lie down sweet… or take out a slice?

You try to steer him, soft as a song,
But twelve hundred pounds won’t sway for long.
He wobbled and leaned, then dropped like a brick—
I dove for his head so he wouldn’t get nicked.

And there he laid, in all his pride,
With two bold apples on either side.
I found my emasculators, strong and clean,
And muttered my mantra: “Nut to nut—know what I mean.”

You clamp that tool, and you hold your breath,
While the seconds crawl on like the angel of death.
One minute… two… you’re counting slow—
Then snip-snap gone, like a late-night show.

Blood’s expected, but not too much—
Just a cowboy ballet with a surgical touch.
I stepped back proud, like I’d wrangled the moon,
But the rodeo started awful soon.

’Cause when they wake up, they don’t send a card—
They just jerk and launch like a rocket straight upward.
Jack shot up like the Fourth of July,
Kicked dust in my teeth and stars in my eye.

The owners were gasping, their dog dashed off,
While I stood there wheezing, tryin’ not to cough.
But old Jack was fine—just lighter behind—
A new way of walking and gentler in mind.

So, here’s to the cutters, the vet, and the crew,
Who ride that fine line ’tween guts and glue.
It ain’t for the faint, or the posh, or the neat—
It’s a dance with danger…but stay your feet.

DocBott