The Pratt County Emu Legend

A hilarious true story (more or less)

Big Foot move over.  A new monster is leaving his three-toed print in the wheat fields of Kansas.

By Kent Wyatt

When I was with the Sheriff’s Department I received some interesting calls.  For weeks we had heard of the mysterious Emus.  Reports would come in about Emu sightings but when an officer arrived they were gone.  Kind of like Bigfoot, they became the legend of Pratt County.  Only one deputy had seen them and lived to tell about it.  “They were huge,” he raved, “and mean.  I got out of my car,” he said, “and one ran for me like a pit bull.  I hid in the car while it chewed on my spotlight – I was lucky to get out of there alive” –  Spine chilling!

One day my dispatcher broadcast the following call as bold as if there was nothing unusual about it:  Pratt – Two, handle a call reference Emus loose in a wheat field.”   “Pratt two?”  That’s me!

I drove to the area expecting them to be gone, but I found the elusive birds.  There they were, two of them and they were big.  If you have ever seen Emus let me tell you that these looked more like ostriches then Emus.  Like a minivan with a neck.  Now what.  “Don’t grab their necks,” I had been cautioned, ” they will kick you with their feet.”  Great, what else does an Emu have to grab but a neck?  I pulled out my handcuffs.  Yeah that neck would fit in there.  I envisioned myself wrestling an Emu – even in my imagination, it was not a pretty sight.

“Go home,” I yelled.  The Emu just looked at me with an expression that said, “I have a brain the size of a peanut and you want me to find my way home?”  I got back in my car and sat there.

When you are in law enforcement people expect things.  They call 911 when their lights go out or their toilet is stopped up – and they expect you to take care of it.  We get calls asking what the weather is like outside and we calmly look out the window and if wet stuff is falling from the sky, we report to the caller that it is raining as if we had the full backing of the National Meteorological Society and both houses of Congress.  People hang up satisfied because we are the authorities – you can trust us.

Now the people who had called watched me as I sat in my car – expectation on their faces.  I picked up my radio microphone and pretended to talk into it – maybe I could buy some time while I pondered my next move.  I gave the caller that look that says, “stand by, this is just a little more complicated than the usual Emu calls that we get, but we are checking the Emu policy and procedure manual right now and will have the answer shortly.”   Another farmer pulled up.  I got out to talk to him – still stalling.  But miracle of miracles, this man knew the secret of the big birds.

They came from a farm about 3 miles away.  The owner of the birds was an over-the-road trucker and when he went on the road – so did the Emus – searching no doubt for the mythical Emu paradise they had heard about since hatchlings.  I walked over to the original caller and took the traditional law enforcement stance that you’re required to assume when you’ve cracked the case.  “Well, Mam,” I said, lowering my voice to that deep official tone, “after some intense investigation we have located the owner of these birds and we have everything under control.”  Of course the woman looked at me as if she never doubted for a moment that we could handle the situation.  After all we probably unstopped her toilet one time.  She drove away knowing that the situation was in good hands.

I got on the phone, praying that the owner was back home from his long haul.   No answer.  I drove to the farm the farmer told me about.  There was no one home.  I was just leaving in despair when a car drove up.  By coincidence it was the daughter of the trucker.  She lived in Pratt and cared for his animals while he was gone.   “Oh, great,” I said, “then you know about his Emus.”  Her expression was less than reassuring.  I got the impression that her animal husbandry experience might be putting out dog food and throwing a scoop of Emu chow in a feed bunk.

We drove to the location of the Emus and the girl got out.  She was obviously pregnant.  Her friend got out as well.  The two early twenties girls stood and stared at the Emus like I might stare at the control panel of a nuclear reactor.  I was just about to say, “there they are,” jump in my car and speed away, when the pregnant girl threw up her hands and said, “GET!”  and ran at one of the birds.  The Emu turned and started to trot down the road toward its home.  Mmmm, this might work yet.  I got in my car.  The girls followed the birds down the road, on foot.  Not knowing what else to do, I turned on my overhead emergency lights and gave chase.  I thought about getting on the radio and giving my status – “Two, Pratt, I am in pursuit of two Emus being chased by a pregnant female and her friend.”  Maybe I would just keep quiet.

Things went pretty well for the first 1/2 mile and then the birds starting slowing down.  The slower they went the more desperate the girls got.  They ran wildly at the animals and the Emus fled into the fields beside the road.  The pregnant woman was also slowing down.  Her friend found new energy and bounded out into the muddy field after the skittish fowl.  The birds dodged her efforts and ran further into the field.  She flailed her arms frantically trying to get the animals back to the road.  Nothing she was doing was working.  I finally could stand it no longer.  Guilt overwhelmed me and I got out and waded into the waist-high weeds, in my uniform, to help.

I looked at the animals, their oily feathers looked sweat soaked.  Their mouths were open – panting, froth forming around their beaks.  They were exhausted and could run no more.  I walked up slowly to the nearest bird and put out my hand.  When you are done in, you will take any friendly hand that is extended.  The poor bird lowered its head and laid it on my chest right next to my badge.  The girl watched as I stoked the bird’s head.  “So what are you,” she said, hands on hips – disgusted, “the Emu whisperer?”

Everyone finally decided that both the birds and the girls were too hot and tired to do more.  I gave the two young ladies a ride back to their car and they drove away with a promise that they would go and get help and come back.  I knew I would never see them again.  I left the Emus as they headed out across another wheat field – the legend lived on and now I was a part of it – the “Emu whisperer.”

As a foot note, the tail of the Emus took a tragic turn a few weeks later.  A Barber County (the county to the south of us) Sheriff’s Deputy was taking a mentally disturbed person to the state mental institution and was traveling through our county, not far from where I had last seen the Emus.  He was traveling at 65 miles an hour when he reported that a large bird came out of the dark running about 30 miles an hour straight at him.  It was of course the end of one of my oily feathered friends.  I am not sure if I can imagine what happened inside that patrol car that night.  A deputy not used to seeing any bird bigger than a pheasant, is driving a dark lonely stretch of Kansas highway with a mentally disturbed man in the back seat.  Suddenly a ragged looking long-necked creature nearly as tall as his car, with wings outstretched, appears in the beam of his headlights, running full tilt at his patrol car.  When that poor deputy tells his story at the mental institution – who are they going to lock up?

Yes, yes, the stuff that legends are made of.  And remember there is still one bird out there.  He whispers to me in my dreams.

 

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