Meet Forrest Hump

By Brent Thackerson, Edmond, Oklahoma

As appeared in

The camel’s dark oval eyes were glazed, the lids only half open. He lay on the ground in his pen, his mangy flanks quivering with each labored breath.

That November morning, Roger, our animal director at Boys Ranch Town, a 145-acre farm for troubled boys on the outskirts of Edmond, Oklahoma, had come to me, worried. “I can’t get him to stand,” he said. “He’s rubbing holes in his skin by dragging himself around.”

Now I watched anxiously as the vet I’d called looked the camel over. Despite arthritis and wobbly joints, the exotic creature had become an integral part of our program since he was donated to us a couple of years ago, teaching the boys the responsibility of caring for an animal, and even starring in the scene with the wise men in our annual drive-through Christmas pageant.

He was as friendly as a great big puppy, and the boys loved Forrest Hump, as they called him. Finally, the vet finished his examination. “Your camel has progressive, degenerative joint disease,” he said. “He’s not going to get better. The humane thing would be to put him down.”

I sank down on a hay bale. I’d made a lot of tough decisions as campus administrator for the ranch, but this was the most painful. Put him down? What would I tell the boys? Yes, Lord, I knew this day would come. But these boys have lost so much—homes, parents, siblings. Must they lose their beloved camel too? Yet, in my heart, I knew it would be cruel to let Forrest suffer. I found Roger and broke the news. “Isn’t there another way?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “Tell the boys when they come to the barn this afternoon. Give them some time to get used to the idea, then arrange for the vet to come back. We can’t have Forrest suffer any longer.”

I busied myself with other matters. As administrator, I wasn’t with the boys at the ranch every day, but one of my duties was deciding who would be admitted. I was considering a 17-year-old named Kyle. Our cutoff was 15. Still, his social worker had begged me to consider him. Abandoned by his parents, Kyle had spent the last few years bouncing among relatives, in and out of shelters and foster homes.

Most recently, he’d lived on the streets—sneaking into a trailer at a construction site after dark to catch some sleep. He had no idea what a normal life was like and didn’t trust anyone. “I think he’ll turn around at the ranch,” the social worker said.

I relented, but regretted it a few days later when Kyle’s house parent gave me a call. “He won’t listen to anything I say,” she said. I went down to the cottage to check on Kyle. I marched in to find clothes everywhere, trash all over the desk, his bed unmade. “Kyle, you must clean your room,” I demanded.

He stared down at the floor, his baggy clothes seeming to swallow him up. “I don’t want to,” he said. I gave him a lecture. But he didn’t acknowledge a word. Finally I walked out, spent. On my way back to my office, a prayer stormed through my thoughts: Lord, did I make a mistake? Is there any way to reach a boy like this?

The reports of his bad behavior kept coming. “Kyle won’t do his chores.” “Kyle verbally threatened one of the other boys.” I was walking through the ranch one day when I heard a commotion outside my office. “Leave me alone!” I heard Kyle shout.